The Method Page 10

  The ideal inamorata is trying to suggest that Mia is exactly like Moritz, save in one regard: Mia hides her difference by conforming to the system, whereas Moritz wore it like a badge. No one would ever describe Mia as ‘abnormal’, but no one calls her ‘normal’ either. She rides the hedge.

  ‘Are you trying to warn me?’ she asks.

  The ideal inamorata nods wordlessly.

  ‘It’s sweet of you,’ says Mia, ‘but there’s really no need. I’m not naive enough to think we can choose our place in life. At most we bring the nails and timber; others build the frame.’

  ‘There’s always a decision to be made,’ says the ideal inamorata. ‘Do you want to be a perpetrator – or a victim?’

  Mia’s answer makes the ideal inamorata bury her head in her hands despairingly.

  ‘I find both options decidedly unappealing,’ she says.

  Pointed Horns: Part II

  ‘OF COURSE THEY’RE unappealing,’ said Moritz. ‘That’s why I’ve decided to be neither. It’s a principle of mine.’

  They were sitting by the river, Mia with her shoes and socks off and her trousers rolled up to the knees, which was her way of saying she was sorry. Their feet dangled casually in the water.

  ‘By the way,’ said Moritz, poking her gently in the ribs, ‘I heard what you said last night when I was leaving.’

  ‘That I’m your home?’

  The rod dropped to the ground as Moritz grabbed Mia and hugged her tightly, so tightly she almost vanished in his embrace. It is humankind’s greatest curse that the happiest moments in life can only be identified when they are over.

  ‘Are you dealing with it all right?’ asked Mia when he finally let go.

  ‘I think so. You don’t spend half your life studying philosophy only to be caught out by the phenomenon of death.’

  Moritz raised a professorial index finger and assumed an expression that was probably supposed to convey that the old Moritz Holl had returned.

  ‘We come from darkness and return to darkness. In between lie the experiences of life. But the beginning and the end, birth and death, we do not experience; they have no subjective character, they fall entirely in the category of objective events. And that’s that,’ he recited.

  Mia laughed out loud. ‘In other words, you live for yourself and die for others,’ she said.

  ‘That’s the beauty of it,’ replied Moritz. ‘It would be disastrous the other way round. But remember, Mia: if you live for yourself, you need to swerve every now and then to avoid other people. You know what happens when you bump into others?’

  ‘In your case, trouble, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘It forces you to decide. The choice is always the same: betray yourself – or say what you think. The second option is dangerous.’

  ‘It’s nothing new,’ said Mia impatiently. She didn’t want to spoil the mood with a discussion about politics. ‘You can’t blame the Method.’

  ‘That’s not my point! It starts with the simplest things, like getting on a train. Maybe you feel like singing at the top of your voice or kissing the woman with all the shopping bags, or maybe you don’t want to pay for a ticket because they’re ridiculously overpriced. But in the end you buy a ticket, you don’t sing, you sit down and you hide your face behind The Healthy Mind. I’d never join a group like the PRI – assuming it even exists. The problem would be exactly the same. I’d be forced to think, speak and act in a certain way. The only demand I make from life is the right to my own reality. In my mind, Sibylle isn’t dead. In my mind, there is freedom. In my mind, people are dancing, drinking and partying in the streets, and the police are there too, watching and talking. The celebrations go through the night, and in the morning one of the neighbours complains about the noise. The officer gives him a bored look and drawls, “If you want something done about it, you should call the police.”’

  Moritz laughed, fished a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it. Mia frowned disapprovingly but didn’t object.

  ‘I don’t want to argue with you,’ she said, ‘but aren’t you dodging everyone else’s reality by living your own?’

  ‘Very true.’ Moritz gripped the cigarette with his teeth and picked up his rod. ‘A constant flickering, that’s what freedom is for humans. Subjectivity, objectivity. Conformity, resistance. On, off. A free man is like a faulty bulb.’

  Mia was about to reply when she heard rustling from the bushes. Looking up, she expected to see a deer or a great big bacteria with pointed horns. A uniformed officer stepped into the clearing. And another. And a third. Moritz was so shocked that he didn’t think to throw the glimmering cigarette into the water. In the space of a second they had pulled him to his feet, twisted his arms behind his back and handcuffed his wrists.

  ‘Moritz Holl,’ said the first officer, ‘I am arresting you on suspicion of the rape and murder of Sibylle Meiler.’

  ‘You have the right to remain silent,’ said the second. ‘Anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence.’

  ‘You have the right to consult a solicitor,’ said the first.

  ‘Let him go!’ shouted Mia.

  ‘If you want something done about it,’ said Moritz, looking at his sister with desperate eyes, ‘you should call the police.’

  ‘I’m sorry for the inconvenience,’ said the third.

  The Right to Remain Silent

  ‘AND THEN HE was gone,’ says Mia to the river. ‘Of all the things he missed in prison, he would have missed you most.’

  She has taken off her shoes and socks, and her feet are dangling in the water. The grass beside her is unoccupied. She has kept up her weekly walk, even without Moritz. The route has become a road to Calvary with stations of the cross: the warning sign, the thicket, the trail. At the very end is the cathedral, erected from the river and the glade.

  ‘He wouldn’t have minded dying, if it meant seeing you again.’

  Jealous, Mia slaps her bare feet against the water, creating a splash. The river, unmoved, continues to flow. Something rustles in the bushes, and Mia is so shocked that she doesn’t think to cast the glimmering cigarette into the river. The stuff of nightmares steps into the clearing.

  ‘Mia Holl,’ says the first officer, ‘I’m arresting you on suspicion of anti-Method activities and leading an anti-Method cell.’

  Before Mia has time to realise what is happening, she has been hauled to her feet with her arms twisted behind her back.

  ‘Who were you meeting here?’ says the second officer.

  ‘You have the right to remain silent,’ says the first.

  The second tightens his grip until Mia yelps with pain. ‘I asked you a question,’ he barks. ‘Who were you meeting here?’

  ‘No one,’ says Mia. ‘I’d like to put on my shoes.’

  ‘I apologise for any inconvenience,’ says the third.

  Mia’s right hand is touching her back in a place that she had previously thought impossible. The thumb pressing against her larynx releases her from the obligation to scream. Pain causes white dots to spiral through her field of vision. The uniformed officers drag her out of the cathedral.

  Exemption

  MORE FURNITURE HAS arrived, furniture and people. More tables, chairs and heavy desks, more black-robed mannequins and, for the first time since the start of Mia’s trial, a handful of spectators. A team of journalists is unpacking its equipment. The room looks bigger than last time: the hearing has shifted to the central court. At the front of the room, Mia spots Sophie, the judge with the blonde ponytail and the nervous habit of putting her pencil in her mouth. The public prosecutor, Barker, is here as well, tilting back on his chair with his hands on the edge of his desk. The look on his face is disdainful; he has a state-sanctioned licence to know everything better than the rest of the world. Sitting in the front row of the public gallery is Kramer. His eyes are fixed on Mia and his gaze is intense, as if he has been missing her. From time to time he gives a little wave. The other familiar figure is Lutz Rosen
treter, who turns up late, sits next to Mia and places a large stack of documents on the desk. He avoids eye contact with the others and seems strangely contented, as if he were focusing his attention on more enjoyable pursuits.

  ‘That’s Hutschneider,’ he says softly, flicking through his notes, ‘the associate judge. On the other side, Judge Weber from the Federal Office for Method Defence, two lay judges, the clerk of the court and the court administrator. A doctor and security personnel to keep an eye on you. They’ve gone to an awful lot of trouble on your account; you should be honoured.’

  Instead, Mia feels a mixture of fear and irrational excitement, as if she were five years old and it was the night before her birthday, for which a magnificent celebration has been planned. She wishes that her party dress were a little more comfortable. She is wearing overalls made of paper that rustle whenever she moves. The doctor comes over to spray her with disinfectant for the third time this morning. At the request of one of the lay judges, he scans the chip in her upper arm.

  ‘Well,’ says Rosentreter. ‘This is it. No more mediation or meddlesome offers of help. Method Defence does things properly.’

  ‘Where were you?’ asks Mia. ‘First I can’t get rid of you and then you disappear. The court was on the point of assigning a new counsel.’

  ‘I was doing some research – a fascinating case.’

  ‘How nice to be able to continue your education.’

  Rosentreter finally looks at Mia and beams at her brightly. He is impervious to sarcasm in his present state.

  ‘The case is open,’ declares Sophie. Her gaze takes in the room, sweeping over Mia as if she and Mia had never met and would never have reason to do so, least of all in their present roles. ‘The relevant parties are present. Let the charges be read.’

  Barker rises cumbersomely from his chair.

  ‘Santé, ladies and gentlemen.’ He knows the charges by heart, but he opens his file all the same. ‘The defendant is charged with anti-Method activities and with spearheading an anti-Method faction. She is further charged with repeated misuse of toxic substances in the first degree. The prosecution calls attention to the following facts. First, the defendant is known to have made verbal attacks on the Method in private and public. According to the court’s main witness, Heinrich Kramer, she expressly blames the Method for the death of her brother. The defendant has also made it perfectly clear that she rejects the authority of the state.’ Barker leafs through his file. ‘I quote: I want to be left alone … I can deal with the fallout from the incident without the intervention of the Method and its associated institutions.’

  ‘Thank you, Barker,’ interrupts Sophie. ‘The judge is sufficiently acquainted with the defendant’s utterances. She was there.’

  ‘Second, the defendant was apprehended in a location known to Method Defence as a meeting point for suspected PRI sympathisers. According to the arresting officers, she was smoking a cigarette.’

  ‘The defendant’s recidivist tendencies are also known to the judge,’ says Sophie with a cynicism that doesn’t suit her.

  ‘When asked to explain her presence at the aforementioned meeting point, the defendant stated she was meeting no one. The prosecution believes that No one is the code name of a PRI activist.’

  ‘Pure conjecture,’ says Rosentreter. ‘I assume this is the prosecution’s idea of a joke …?’

  ‘Be so kind as to wait your turn,’ says Sophie. ‘Next time you speak without permission, I’ll assume you wish to leave the court.’

  ‘The prosecution calls Heinrich Kramer to the stand,’ says Barker. ‘The prosecution also calls for the defendant to be interrogated about her political views.’

  ‘Agreed,’ says Sophie. ‘Herr Rosentreter, what does the defence recommend?’

  ‘An immediate suspension of the trial,’ says Rosentreter. ‘The matter should never have been brought to court.’

  ‘You still want to pursue your application for exemption?’ asks Sophie with almost amused astonishment.

  ‘As a matter of fact, we’re applying for the court to be recused on suspicion of bias.’

  There is a murmur of excitement.

  The judge looks at Rosentreter, who returns her gaze unflinchingly. She leans over to Hutschneider and Weber and a whispered debate ensues.

  ‘Declined,’ she says at last. ‘The trial will continue. I advise the private counsel to consider his client’s well-being and stick to the rules. Frau Holl, please rise for questioning.’

  ‘Go on,’ says Rosentreter to Mia, who has been listening to the proceedings with the bemusement of someone adrift in a foreign language. She stays seated until Rosentreter pokes her in the ribs; then she rises, rustles around the dock in her paper suit and sits at the little table in front of the judge’s lectern.

  ‘Do I have to take an oath?’ she asks.

  ‘You’re not entitled to take an oath,’ says Sophie. ‘Oaths are reserved for witnesses. In future, you might want to look for a lawyer who can brief you on basic legal procedures. In the event that … you’re arrested again.’

  ‘Frau Holl, we’d like to confirm a few personal details,’ says Barker.

  ‘I’m a scientist,’ says Mia, ‘not a terrorist.’

  There is laughter from the public gallery; the judge restores order with a threatening gesture.

  ‘Come on, Frau Holl,’ says Barker. ‘It’s not like you to hold back with your opinions. This is your chance. What do you think of our political system?’

  ‘Science,’ says Mia, ‘broke up the long-standing marriage between humankind and the transcendental. The soul, progeny of this union, was given up for adoption. It left us with the body, which became our main concern. The body is temple and altar; our highest god, our greatest sacrifice; sacred and enslaved. Logically speaking, it was inevitable. Do you see what I mean?’

  ‘No,’ says Barker.

  ‘Absolutely,’ says Sophie. ‘Please go on.’

  ‘The sort of person who recognises the logical inevitability of a development is not the sort of person who swims against the tide. For such a person, swimming against the tide is pointless, futile. So you want to know what I think about anti-Method activities? The PRI? Revolution?’ Mia is becoming animated. She rolls up the sleeves of her paper overalls. ‘Revolution is when the many rise up against the few, the few being a handful of people who make the decisions at any one time. In all other respects, the few and the many are the same.’

  She turns to Kramer as if her explanation were intended for him alone. He lifts his chin and signals for her to face the judge.

  ‘What would you think if you saw a pack of wolves attacking and killing its leader?’ she says. ‘You’d think it was natural, wouldn’t you? You’d think it was nature’s way of finding a new leader for the pack. It’s that simple! We can talk about revolution, power and oppression, politics, the Method, economics, private interest and the common good, we can use a thousand new words for describing matters that seem complicated and important, but it all comes down to one thing: a human arrangement. Since the gods are no longer in the picture, it’s irredeemably banal. A pack of wolves that get rid of their leader every few years.’

  Barker shuffles in his seat. He looks like a loose collection of bones barely held together by his robe.

  ‘I’m not sure the defendant’s statement was intelligible to the court,’ he says.

  ‘On the contrary,’ says Sophie. ‘Frau Holl has made it clear that she can’t see the sense in revolution, since revolution is a conflict between two groups of humans, and humans, as the court would agree, are identical in worth. The judge accepts the statement as admissible evidence.’

  ‘Pardon me,’ says Hutschneider, ‘but in the same statement Frau Holl asserted that a pack, um, I mean, a society should replace its leader, or rather, its government every few years.’

  ‘The point is,’ says Mia, ‘I want nothing to do with it. My brother accused me of supporting the Method only because I despised humankind.
He was probably right, but it doesn’t change the fact that I believe in the Method.’

  ‘If the defendant’s belief in the system is grounded in her contempt for humanity, it follows that she despises the state,’ says Hutschneider craftily, jabbing the air with his pen as he speaks.

  ‘Is this a courtroom or a debating club?’ asks Barker, running his fingers around his collar as if he were overheating.

  ‘First official caution,’ says Sophie.

  ‘The system teaches us to think rationally,’ says Mia. ‘Everything about me is rational. At school I was taught to approach every problem from at least two different sides. Logic splits everything into two opposing parts. At the end of the process, you get zero.’

  ‘Ha, now I see where she’s coming from,’ exclaims Barker. ‘Frau Holl is campaigning for freedom from consequences.’

  ‘Logic makes me sit on the fence. I’m forever in between. I can’t decide for or against: I’m not in the least bit dangerous.’

  ‘I suspect the opposite is the case,’ says Hutschneider darkly.

  ‘Frau Holl,’ says Sophie, and does something she has never done in court: she reaches back and unties her hair, ‘in our previous conversations we talked about the connection between personal well-being and the common good. Can you explain your views to the court?’

  ‘The state,’ says Mia obediently, ‘is there to serve humanity’s natural desire for life and happiness. Power is legitimate only in so far as it serves this goal. The state must unite the well-being of the individual and the whole.’

  ‘Many of us are working very hard to achieve precisely that,’ says Sophie. ‘We’re doing well, I think you’d agree.’

  ‘Maybe you are,’ says Mia softly, ‘but maybe it’s not enough. Maybe for a system to be legitimate, it has to be infallible, which is humanly impossible, per se.’