The Method Page 12

  ‘Do you want to know the truth?’ says the ideal inamorata. ‘You’re finished; you’re finished either way – which is exactly what you want.’

  ‘The truth,’ says Mia, ‘is only visible from the corner of one’s eye. The moment you look at it squarely, it becomes a lie.’ She picks up the phone and taps in a number. ‘Put me through to Heinrich Kramer.’

  The Second Category

  ‘I WAS WONDERING how you felt about it.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Life.’

  Mia is boiling some water in the kitchen. She gets out two cups and cuts a few slices of lemon. She looks briefly into the living room as if to satisfy herself that her guest hasn’t left.

  ‘Oh,’ says Kramer. ‘Very neat. Really.’

  He is sitting on the sofa beside the ideal inamorata, and he is back to his usual self. His cheeks are neither pallid nor flushed and his hands are out of his pockets. The awkward situation he got into in the courtroom will haunt him for the rest of his life.

  He sees Mia looking at him, and smiles. ‘I have a beautiful wife with long brown hair and two lovely children who cling to my legs and shout “Daddy!” as soon as I walk through the door.’

  ‘Sounds wonderful.’

  ‘It is wonderful. A centuries-old arrangement. In our personal relations, we’ve lived with the same basic model for thousands of years. Humans are programmed for a limited range of modes: love, hatred, fear, happiness, trust …’

  ‘Revenge …’

  ‘Yes, revenge, too. If you think about it, human existence is very simple. Happiness is a case in point. There are two basic categories for describing experience: positive, which means beneficial or propitious; or negative, which means disadvantageous or harmful. The key to happiness lies in filling one’s life with experiences from the first category and avoiding the second.’

  ‘It certainly sounds convincing.’

  ‘It is. And how are you? Why don’t you tell me about your life? Where’s your husband? Where are your children?’

  ‘I ask the questions,’ says Mia, coming in from the kitchen and applying herself to serving two cups of water in an unconditional and perfect way. ‘You can turn the screws on me, but I’d advise you to be careful: my brother is dead, and your conscience is a dog that wants to lick my hand.’

  ‘I don’t have a conscience, Frau Holl.’

  ‘No, but you understand political necessity, which amounts to the same.’

  ‘Very good,’ says Kramer, laughing. ‘You’re learning to use your weapons.’

  ‘How does it feel to be on the receiving end?’

  ‘An experience from the second category, I’m afraid.’ Kramer sips his water carefully. ‘Yesterday, before your acquittal, a group of protesters gathered outside the courthouse. There weren’t many of them – somewhere in the region of a hundred, according to the police. Still, the Method isn’t keen on such gatherings.’

  ‘And yet your colleagues are flirting with my case.’

  ‘The majority of them, yes. Even supposedly like-minded journalists … You know Herr Wörmer from What We All Think?’

  ‘What of him?’

  ‘I suppose you could call him a protégé of mine. Anyway, Herr Wörmer took it upon himself to suggest that the value of a political system might lie in its ability to adjust to new developments, to arrange itself around the situation like a well-fitting coat. According to him, legitimate governments are like custom-made shoes that never pinch or rub. As if Wörmer knew the first thing about footwear! All of a sudden my colleagues are scrambling over each other to criticise the system.’

  ‘You’re not tempted to convert?’

  ‘Don’t insult me, Frau Holl. Accuse me of whatever you like, but not of opportunism.’

  ‘Spoken like a true fanatic.’

  ‘Spoken like a man of honour. I’m not interested in adjusting the system, and I don’t give a damn about footwear or coats. The situation has taken an unfavourable turn. I’m ready to fight to the last drop of blood, as they used to say in the good old days.’

  ‘There’s one thing I don’t understand,’ says Mia. ‘I can still hear you telling me that the human condition is a pitch-black room in which we crawl around like newborn babies. Why are you intent on spilling blood? The last drop, indeed?’

  ‘I’m a believer, Mia, and this is my crusade. I believe in a political right to good health, derived from our inborn will to live. I believe that a system can only ever be just if it takes the body as its starting point. I believe that all men are equal in body, not in mind. Most of all, the Method’s vision of humanity is superior to all that came before.’

  Mia watches as Kramer settles into the pose of an orator. He presses his chin to his chest, encourages his eyebrows to rise up and down expressively, and shifts his weight in order to gesticulate freely with his right arm.

  ‘Take a look at the history books,’ he says. ‘You’ll see what happens when humans become infatuated with their physical ills. Barely fifty years ago, children were proud of scraped knees. Fully grown men and women drew hearts on each other’s plaster casts. Everyone complained about hay fever, back pain and indigestion, when all they wanted was attention – undeserved attention. Physical suffering was a serious topic of conversation. A visit to the doctor’s became a national sport. Illness was proof of one’s existence, as if people had to suffer to know they were alive. For centuries, people worshipped weakness; it even became the basis of a world religion. People knelt before pictures of an anorexic, bearded masochist with barbed wire on his head and blood flowing down his cheeks. The pride of the sick, the sanctity of the sick, the narcissism of the sick; these were the vices that poisoned humanity from the inside.’

  ‘Life,’ says Mia breezily, ‘begins at the height of its power. From birth, it’s a steady decline towards the end. The dramaturgy is all wrong.’

  ‘D’accord. But in modern society, rather than worship the error, we correct it: we’ve identified the problem, and there’s no going back. How could anyone in this day and age argue rationally against seeing good health as the norm? Optimal functionality without weakness or impairment – health is the only possible ideal.’

  ‘Bravo, Kramer.’ Mia smiles like a contented cat and takes a sip of hot water. ‘If my hands were free, I’d applaud. Kramer number 1 is an excellent demagogue, but Kramer number 2 thinks any given system is as good as the next. First we called it Christianity, then democracy, and now we call it the Method. Always claiming an absolute truth, always wanting absolute Good, and always foisting itself on the rest of the world. It’s all religion. Why would an unbeliever like you want to fight in defence of the latest manifestation of the same old mistake?’

  ‘Very sharp – but be careful not to cut yourself, Frau Holl. Shall I save you the trouble of dissecting me further and give you an honest response?’

  Kramer abandons his orator’s pose, rests his elbows on his knees and turns his palms towards the ceiling. He looks like a person trying to look like a person speaking from the heart. ‘In all honesty,’ he says, ‘I despise the antiquated inheritance of the bourgeois Enlightenment, the backwardness of libertarian thought. I can’t abide the childish pride of political partisans who insist on playing the hero. The people who complain about authority are simply too stupid, lazy or arrogant to appropriate the power they need to be effective. They stand on the sidelines and holler about injustice because they see the world as one big sour grape. But offer one of these self-declared revolutionaries a position of authority within the hated edifice, and I guarantee he’ll shut up and get on with the job. What does it tell us about our fellow humans, Frau Holl? They’re only too happy to claim that black is white when it plays to their vanity.’

  ‘Well, well,’ says Mia, smiling more broadly. ‘It’s astonishing how certain generalisations acquire a personal cast.’

  ‘The impetus for progress,’ says Kramer, ignoring Mia’s last remark, ‘comes from two things: society’s hubris and t
he individual’s need to prove himself. Every epoch in human history has claimed hundreds of thousands, if not millions of victims because people can’t resolve themselves to settle for the status quo. The Method is a perfectly good system; there’s no need to replace it with anything else.’

  ‘Surely you’re not serious? After everything that’s happened.’

  ‘Come on, Mia, you’re not that petty. A personal tragedy doesn’t make a political crisis. Every form of government claims the odd casualty, as I’m sure you’re aware. Despite what happened to your brother, the Method is far and away the fairest, most reliable system in history. Why are you looking at me so fiercely? Surely you don’t believe in a political paradise on Earth?’

  ‘I’m not looking at you fiercely,’ says Mia. ‘I’m just intrigued. By the way, I’m at a slight advantage: I’ve given up on reason. I’ve learned to think with my heart.’

  ‘How sweet! I didn’t have you down as a sensitive girl. You’ve changed, Mia. I don’t know whether I should be sorry or pleased. A few days ago, I almost thought we were kindred spirits.’

  ‘I’d be honoured to have as little in common with you as possible.’

  ‘As you like. But maybe you’d care to tell me what your newly discovered heart is thinking?’

  ‘It’s thinking about freedom.’

  Kramer presses an index finger to his temple and groans.

  ‘I didn’t mean to give you a headache,’ says Mia, ‘but don’t worry, you passed.’

  ‘Passed what?’

  ‘The test.’ Mia arches her back and stretches luxuriantly. ‘Would you like the results? You have recognised that you’re intelligent – too intelligent to make binding, final and irreversible decisions. In other words, your intelligence debars you from power. Which is why you’ve nailed your pride and your sense of self-worth to the Method. You’re a partisan, too, Herr Kramer. A partisan on the side of the status quo. It makes you an absolutely reliable enemy of mine.’

  ‘I don’t think you’ll be short of enemies in future.’

  ‘In that case, you should count yourself lucky that I decided to talk to you; I’m sure you’ll be able to find a place for this episode in the chronicle of your importance. For my part, I only want you as my mouthpiece. You’ll need a pen and paper. I’m relying on you as a man of honour to cite me directly.’

  Kramer roars with laughter, then falls silent. He opens his mouth, starts to say something, and stops. For a few seconds it seems as though he might lose his self-control. The look that he bestows on Mia betrays a readiness to use physical violence. Little by little, the threat melts into a mocking grin, and Kramer lowers his head.

  ‘Second category?’ enquires Mia solicitously.

  ‘Second category,’ says Kramer, looking for paper and pen.

  ‘My apologies, Mia,’ says the ideal inamorata. ‘Moritz would have loved this.’

  The Nature of the Question

  I REFUSE TO trust a society that is made up of humans and based on a fear of what is human. I refuse to trust a civilisation that has sold out the mind to the body. I refuse to trust a body that represents a collective vision of a normalised body rather than my own flesh, my own blood. I refuse to trust a definition of normality based on good health. I refuse to trust a definition of health based on normality. I refuse to trust a system of government based on logical fallacies. I refuse to trust an idea of safety that claims to be the definitive answer without disclosing what the question is. I refuse to trust a philosophical system that holds existential debate to be over and done with. I refuse to trust an ethical framework that opts for ‘functional’ and ‘non-functional’ rather than confronting the paradox of good and evil. I refuse to trust a legal system that derives its success from controlling every aspect of its citizens’ lives. I refuse to trust a population that believes total transparency exposes only those with something to hide. I refuse to trust the Method for valuing a person’s DNA over his word. I refuse to trust the common good for seeing individuality as an unjustifiable expense. I refuse to trust personal interest that is merely a variation on a collective theme. I refuse to trust a political system that draws its popularity entirely from the promise of a life free of risk. I refuse to trust natural sciences that repudiate free will. I refuse to trust a notion of love that casts itself as the product of two optimally suited immune systems. I refuse to trust parents who see tree houses as accidents waiting to happen and pets as carriers of disease. I refuse to trust a system that claims to know better than I do what is good for me. I refuse to trust the person who took down the sign at the gates to humanity that said: ‘Caution! Life leads to death!’

  I refuse to trust myself because my brother had to die before I finally understood what it means to be alive.

  A Matter of Trust

  KRAMER IS FEELING euphoric. He puts away his pen and paper and thanks Mia for her assistance in promoting the common cause. He is grateful to her, he says, for entrusting to him a political weapon of mass destruction, and he knows she can count on him to put it to good use. When Mia asks what he means by common cause, he looks at her in astonishment: has she not realised that fate has brought the two of them together to undertake a joint mission of an unspecified nature? She would agree, would she not, that any system of government should assure itself periodically of its mandate to rule? And isn’t it time for the Method to test itself? To put the matter to a vote of confidence? In previous eras, governments struggling to assert their authority would call on parliament to dismiss them or come out in their support – isn’t this exactly the situation facing the Method? And perhaps Mia, by publicising her views on the system, could contribute towards securing the right result? In any case, he likes her apartment and hopes she was comfortable there.

  As Mia shows him to the door, she wonders why he spoke of her apartment in the past tense. Should she think of her efforts as belonging to the first or the second category? On what basis should the category be decided? Whose perspective should she apply? When the door shuts behind him, she ceases to care.

  Now she is lying in the arms of the ideal inamorata and drinking from the champagne bottle that Rosentreter left behind. Suddenly the ideal inamorata starts talking in the past tense as well.

  ‘I was moored on your shores for a while,’ she says. ‘You should be glad.’

  ‘I wasn’t friends with you; I was friends with your simulacrum,’ says Mia.

  ‘You’re being cynical.’

  ‘I’m being precise. I couldn’t love you properly – not the way that Moritz did. It’s always been hard to believe in your existence.’

  ‘You won’t have to any more.’

  ‘You’re leaving me, are you? Why?’ Mia passes her the bottle. She strokes the ideal inamorata’s forehead. The ideal inamorata keeps quiet. Her foot is tapping in time with a song that no one else can hear.

  ‘I’ve achieved my goal,’ she says at last. ‘Moritz’s final wish was for you to believe him, for you to understand what happened. For you to think of him in the right way.’

  ‘Do you know what I told him? I want to be the ground that trembles beneath your feet when the vengeance of the gods is visited upon you. Fate likes us to keep our promises, I suppose.’

  ‘I didn’t think it would be this hard for me to leave you.’ The ideal inamorata runs her hand lightly through Mia’s hair. ‘I’m concerned for you, Mia.’

  ‘You needn’t worry: technically, I’m a saint.’

  ‘Martyrdom comes before sainthood.’

  ‘I was never much interested in getting old – who wants to spend their time waiting for the next meal? Oh, come on!’ she says as the ideal inamorata withdraws her hand. ‘I was joking!’

  ‘I don’t have a sense of humour. There is no sentence so foolish that a human couldn’t say it in all seriousness.’

  Mia pulls the ideal inamorata towards her and kisses her on the lips. ‘We have no idea how many times a day the world avoids the apocalypse. When you see Moritz, tell him I
love him. Or rather, tell him that a tree house is for pulling up the ladder, eating cherries until your stomach hurts, getting birds’ mess in your hair and still never wanting to come down. Will you tell him?’

  ‘I promise.’

  Mia takes a deep breath as if she is about to start a long sentence that will reveal the answer to everything, but her mouth is open because she needs to yawn. In no time she is asleep.

  Cushion

  SHE WAKES TO the noise of Method Defence breaking down her front door. Method Defence has no shortage of highly trained lock pickers with the ability to enter any building silently in a matter of seconds. When these people force their way into an apartment, they do so by choice. Three men storm into Mia’s living room: a small army, driven forward by the momentum of their attack. Mia is lying on the couch; she has only just opened her eyes. She stares, bewildered, at the invaders. In her arms is not the ideal inamorata, but a cushion.

  She kicks the first invader in the stomach. The second she attacks with raised claws, aiming for his face. The nail of her index finger goes deep under the lower lid of his right eye. None of these men grasp that Mia isn’t protecting herself; she is defending the cushion with the ruthlessness of a lioness fighting for her newborn cub. The third manages to catch hold of her legs. Mia rears up and sinks her teeth into his neck, letting go only when she tastes blood. He cries out and smashes his fist into her forehead; she drops onto the sofa, dazed but not ready to surrender.

  Not a word is spoken. There is no sorry to disturb you or please forgive the inconvenience. Mia’s living room isn’t the site of an arrest. This is a war, and maximum damage must be inflicted on the aggressors before they drag away their prey.

  ‘Rapists! Thieves!’

  ‘Marching in here with their dirty boots!’