The Method Page 15

  ‘Anyway,’ she says chattily. ‘How are things with you?’

  ‘Well,’ says Rosentreter, who for days now has been asking himself the same question without reaching a conclusion, ‘I’ve … I’ve split up with my, um, friend.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ For the first time Mia looks upset. ‘You can’t have done! A woman like cold water on burnt skin …’

  ‘It was for the best. We couldn’t stop arguing. We’ve been arguing for weeks. About you.’

  ‘She didn’t think we were …?’

  ‘No.’ The lawyer smiles bitterly. ‘If only she had. It would have made things easier. She couldn’t understand why I would put myself in danger by taking on your case. She accused me of hard-nosed careerism. In the end I had to level with her. I told her I was tired of feeling like a fugitive because I’d met the woman of my dreams. I told her I wanted to send a clear signal; that I had to do something when the opportunity arose.’ Rosentreter puts his hands to his face; his voice sounds empty. ‘When she finally understood, she went mad. She’s a gentle person, really; she’d never shouted at me like that before. She wanted to know why I thought our feelings were more important than the Method. She said no love in the world could justify defending a terrorist.’

  ‘A terrorist?’

  ‘I had to let it go, don’t you see? I couldn’t tell her the truth. She lives a normal life. She’s like other normal people; she doesn’t believe in anything – except what she reads in the papers. I couldn’t destroy her world; it wouldn’t be right.’

  ‘To lose your destination and your point of departure is a cruel twist of fate,’ says Mia. ‘A perfidious metaphor of meaninglessness. I don’t envy you.’

  Rosentreter lowers his hands and looks at Mia with reddened eyes. ‘You think your situation is better?’

  ‘Of course. I can always tell myself that Moritz would have wanted this – and this, and this, and this … Yes, he would have wanted this. That’s where I’ve got the upper hand: he isn’t here to argue.’

  Rosentreter stands up hastily and collects his things. Everyone has a pain threshold; Mia has pushed him over his.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I have to go.

  ‘Come closer to the screen,’ whispers Mia.

  They place their hands against the glass.

  ‘Did you bring it? It’s the only favour I’ve ever asked.’

  He drops his left hand into his jacket pocket and hides something between his fingers. He leans towards the screen and feeds something through the constellation of circular holes while pretending to kiss the glass.

  ‘Thank you.’ Mia closes her fingers around the object. This time it isn’t fishing twine; it’s a long needle.

  The Middle Ages

  ‘I’LL SET THE record straight!’ Mia looks at Kramer and turns away; her gaze runs scared. ‘Botulinum in protein tubes! Don’t make me laugh. You and I are going to tighten up the science in your terrorist plot. I’ll tell my side of the story, and you’ll be my mouthpiece. Do you have a pen?’

  ‘Mia, this isn’t the right moment for another public statement. The situation is under control. You and I are going to sit tight and wait for the weekend revolutionaries to see the error of their ways and scuttle home.’

  ‘Do as you like, but I’m not keeping quiet. I want to speak to my supporters.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mia.’

  ‘I told you to get your pen!’ She attacks with raised claws, aiming for his face, as she did in the confrontation with Method Defence. There is nothing to which humans beings become accustomed more quickly than violence.

  ‘I’ve stopped caring!’ she shouts wildly. ‘That makes me dangerous!’

  ‘It makes you embarrassing,’ says Kramer, not attempting to defend himself.

  Mia runs aground on his passivity; she drops her arms. It might be easy to fight back, scratching and kicking, against a superior assailant. It takes an expert, though, to attack a man leaning casually against the wall with his hands in his pockets.

  ‘OK,’ says Kramer, which isn’t a word he often uses. If Mia knew him better, she would realise that he is still in shock from her attack. But Mia’s strength has gone.

  ‘Let’s get down to business.’ Kramer shakes the events of the last few moments from his jacket sleeves. He paces up and down as if he were delivering a lecture. ‘In one of our earlier conversations, we touched on the function of the defendant’s confession in criminal law. If a confession is not forthcoming, the subjective truth of the defendant must be replaced with an approximation of objective truth: in other words, we construct a perfect chain of proof – witness statements, fingerprints, voice recordings and so forth.’

  ‘DNA tests are popular,’ says Mia in a whisper.

  Kramer pretends not to hear. ‘In your case, the chain of evidence is complete. All the same, the Method is keen to elicit a confession. You’re being offered certain privileges.’

  ‘Privileges?’ Mia lifts her head; she seems confused. She looks Kramer in the eye and a moment later she understands what the substance of the negotiations is to be. A state based on the Method, a state that takes human existence as its highest principle, cannot sentence its citizens to death. Instead, the ultimate penalty is vita minima, virtual death, which comes with the promise of rehabilitation, should the political circumstances change. It’s a sensible solution, though unpleasant for those concerned. If you die, you get away, Moritz used to say. But if you’re frozen, you belong to the system for good. You’re their trophy.

  ‘So you’re prepared to go all the way,’ says Mia, breaking the silence. ‘I don’t even know what I’m charged with.’

  ‘Of course you do, Mia. They used to call it high treason.’

  ‘What do they call it now?’

  ‘Method Defence has intervened on your behalf. Barker and Hutschneider are willing to commute your sentence in return for a confession. You’ll get a prison sentence instead of freezing. With a bit of luck, they’ll move you to a more comfortable facility once you’ve served a few years. You’re still young.’

  ‘Do you think I’m going to confess to your ridiculous botulinum plot? I’m not going to stand up in court and say that my brother’s death was the work of some fictional terrorist cell. You’re insane!’

  ‘If I were you, I’d think about it carefully.’

  ‘There’s no need. Everything I ever cared about has been taken from me: Moritz, my apartment, my work, my belief in something approximating justice, as far as it went. Do you know what I’m left with?’

  ‘No – but I’m bracing myself for another of your twentieth-century anachronisms.’

  ‘I’m left with my soul,’ says Mia. ‘My honour, my dignity … If it amuses you to freeze me, go right ahead.’

  ‘You can be certain that Moritz wouldn’t have wanted that.’

  ‘How dare you!’ screams Mia. ‘I hope you choke on his name if you ever mention it again!’

  ‘Good gracious,’ says Kramer in mock terror, tracing a crucifix in the air. ‘A witch’s curse. Vade retro! I’m sorry, Mia, it isn’t a laughing matter, of course. The whole episode with Moritz was a tremendous setback. For the first time, the Method showed itself to be fallible. You realise we’ve had terrorist threats.’

  ‘I thought the weekend revolutionaries had gone home.’

  ‘The PRI has gained momentum. Quite apart from that, compliance with health and hygiene regulations has fallen. Do you understand how serious that is?’ He leans forward as if there were nothing more natural than to reach for her hand. He seems to think they have been wedded by circumstances. ‘If society doesn’t work together to maintain security and hygiene, we’ll be hit by an epidemic in a matter of weeks. These days, we’re immunologically vulnerable.’

  ‘What has this got to do with me?’

  ‘From now on your brother’s name will be invoked to justify every subversive act in the country. History teaches us that isolated events can lead to appalling bloodshed – the defenest
rations of Prague, the storming of the Bastille, the Archduke’s murder in Sarajevo, the death of Moritz Holl. Be reasonable, Mia! You say you’ve found your true self. Do you think you should burden it with such responsibility?’

  ‘Burden?’ Mia shrugs her shoulders. ‘It doesn’t feel like a burden to me.’

  Kramer takes another step towards her. ‘If you had it in your power to stop the Archduke being murdered, would you?’

  ‘Maybe,’ says Mia hesitantly.

  ‘That’s the problem, Mia. Past actions can’t be retracted, but the future can be changed. Millions of people depend on the Method. Are you going to risk their lives for the sake of your dignity? Is it honourable to value your self above all else? What should we value most, Mia? What is humankind compared to your dignity?’

  ‘How should I know?’ says Mia defiantly.

  ‘I recommend you think about it. I’m giving you twenty-four hours.’

  ‘You’re wasting your time. I won’t betray my brother or myself.’

  ‘That’s your final word?’

  ‘It’s pretty straightforward. You think you can change my mind because I haven’t argued rationally. You’re wrong. I don’t need rational arguments: the fewer I use, the stronger I become.’

  ‘Mia …’ Kramer rubs his hands together, slips them into his pockets, takes them out. For a moment he almost resembles Rosentreter. He is obviously wrestling with an uncomfortable piece of news. ‘Mia, the Method is making you an offer. It has other ways of asking, if you know what I mean.’

  When Mia says nothing, Kramer resumes pacing up and down the cell. ‘Mia, this conversation isn’t over. I’m sure you’re aware that the Method’s handling of criminal justice is extremely progressive, but progress is never an entirely straight line. In certain situations, in highly sensitive cases, when there is a threat to the greater good, a degree of backsliding has been known to occur. In such situations, the system may revert to somewhat medieval methods …’

  For a few seconds, Mia stares at him, appalled. ‘Tell me straight,’ she says when she is finally able to speak. ‘What are they going to do to me?’

  ‘The basic procedure is nothing new. The same methods were used half a century ago. They’ll stand you on a crate, naked, of course, and place a black hood over your head. Contacts will be attached to your fingers, toes and genitalia – like clothes pegs.’ He presses his thumb against his forefinger as if he were opening and closing a peg. ‘They’ll start with maximum current – no messing about with incremental shocks. Two senior clinicians from the university hospital will be present to make sure you don’t … how should I put it? … pass away.’

  Mia shakes her head, hiccups with laughter, turns away and runs to the door. It is locked. She rattles the handle vigorously, then she stops and raises a hand, tracing a finger over the cold metal as if checking the smoothness of the surface.

  ‘So there we have it: the system may revert to medieval methods.’ She turns round, laughing. ‘But deep down we knew as much, didn’t we, Kramer? You more than anyone. But I knew as well. Nothing has changed. Nothing ever changes. One system is as good as another. The Middle Ages is not a historical period; the Middle Ages is the name of human nature.’

  ‘Harsh words, but not entirely unjustified. So you’re not going to change your mind?’

  ‘No. Will you be there to watch?’

  ‘Not if I can help it.’ Kramer clears his throat. ‘I’m rather squeamish, but if you insist …’

  ‘It’ is Raining

  ‘IT’S ONLY MY body. A body. Only the body.’

  It is clear from Mia’s voice that she has been talking to herself for many hours.

  ‘My toes belong to my body. My fingers belong to my body. My genitalia belong to my body. My arms and legs belong to my body. My stomach belongs to my body. My heart belongs to my body. My brain …’ She stops for a moment; a spasm takes hold of her shoulders and her head bangs up and down against the floor. ‘My brain belongs to my body. A world of matter staring at itself. They can have it! Moritz would be pleased.’

  Another spasm takes hold of her and she tries to slot a hand beneath her right temple to cushion her skull. She is shaking as if she were still attached to the machine. Some time ago, they removed the crate and cables and left Mia on the floor. Curled up like an embryo, she is alone in her cell. She hasn’t moved from the spot, save for the spasms. The floor is tiled, which makes it hard and cold. In a sense, she is lucky to have lost sensation in her body. The bigger problem, from her perspective, is the flickering light. Every 1.5 seconds the light turns off and on. Mia’s body is bathed in blinding light and plunged into darkness again, and again. A constant flickering, off, on. A free man is like a faulty bulb. That’s how Moritz put it.

  The light stops her sleeping. It interrupts her thoughts. Each new flash of light cuts into her brain like a knife. There is no rest. No loss of consciousness. No sinking into merciful oblivion. They have condemned Mia, or what is left of Mia, to being wide awake.

  ‘The good thing about a sister, you once said to me, is not having to believe in her. According to you, that’s what distinguished me, your sister, from God, from you, and from everything you said and did. I said no one except God was stupid enough to need constant proof of his own existence. You looked at me seriously and said God’s existence was long proven. You gave me three proofs of his existence: there is no God, God is a figment of your imagination, and God is dead. I made you explain. No one, you said, comments on a thing that doesn’t exist; no one points out its non-existence or claims that it’s dead. Otherwise, you said, the world would be full of statements like “Casmanets are a figment of your imagination!” or “Teezle is dead”. What, I asked, are casmanets? And who is Teezle? You laughed and laughed. See, you said, they don’t exist! It’s a good thing we’re not obliged to point out the non-existence of the non-existent in order to stop it from existing; it would take all day, you said. I think you were twelve at the time.’

  When the next spasm comes she manages to hold both hands beneath her head and roll a little to the side. She is almost on her back.

  ‘Of course, I laughed too. Laughing was wonderful; laughing together was fun, especially when we were kids and you were discovering philosophy. Philosophy was laughter that never seemed to stop. You said that nothing was a given, especially the world. Who gave it? The same impersonal it that rains? The same it that is high time? The same it that is possible, impossible, obvious and clear? If so, God and I have a lot in common. They’re nothing but pronouns. A grammatical bind.’

  A noise escapes from Mia: with a bit of imagination, we could construe it as a laugh or a cough.

  ‘You were so smart. After that I couldn’t say “it’s raining” without smiling to myself. Maybe it’s raining now … What season is it? We should all have a tree outside our window or a steep slate roof on the other side of the street, something to tell us if it’s raining. Darkness should be a human right. Maybe I’ll start a campaign. The point of night is to adjust ourselves gradually to darkness. The point of sleep is to adjust ourselves to death, night after night. Turn off the light. Sometimes a long train of thought leads nowhere but autumn.’

  For a while Mia lies in silence, tapping her foot limply in time with the rhythm of the light until her head is full again, her mind overrun by the ceaseless, intrusive and unnecessary production of thoughts. An impenetrable jungle of musings. Speech is a scythe.

  ‘Your knees are my only chair. Your back is my table. Your eyes are my windows. May your mouth be the glass from which I drink, your heart my sustenance, your pulse my watch, your life my time. May your breath be my air. May your face be my moon when you bend over me at night, and my sun when you laugh for me in the light. May your voice be my only sound, your pulse be my watch, your life be my time. May your death be mine.’

  The spasms return with a vengeance, causing Mia to throw her head from side to side as if her thoughts were pestering her like flies. When her temple hits t
he floor again, pain oozes into her, seeping through her right ear, spreading like acid through her lower jaw, numbing her lips, closing her right eye. Mia sees her head as an ants’ nest made entirely of delicate walkways filled with poison. Then darkness comes at last.

  Thin Air

  SHE HEARS THE sound of falling water, an irregular bright patter, too loud for rain. It smells of vinegar. When Mia opens her eyes, she is looking straight into Kramer’s face. It doesn’t strike her as unusual: she has long felt that his image is inscribed on the inside of her eyelids.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asks.

  ‘Working on your resurrection.’ He dips a sponge into a bowl and draws it across her brow. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Terrific. I’ll soon be well enough to dash your brains out.’

  ‘That’s wonderful news,’ says Kramer.

  Without warning Mia’s head moves in a spasm, jerking to the side and knocking the bowl from Kramer’s hand.

  ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘Collateral damage – although I don’t suppose anyone is counting any more.’

  ‘That’s what I’m here to discuss.’

  Kramer has brought two chairs. During his last visit, he and Mia sat on these chairs and chatted. She hasn’t seen them since.

  This time, Kramer has to scoop Mia into his arms and place her on the chair. Her body must be rearranged carefully to ensure she is balanced.

  ‘During the witch hunts,’ says Mia, ‘if a person survived being tortured, they let her go.’

  ‘I’m afraid the excursion to the Middle Ages is over.’

  Mia looks at Kramer and jerks her chin towards a corner of the cell. ‘Over there.’

  Kramer hovers, uncertain as to whether to sit down. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Just do it, won’t you?’

  He turns and follows her directions. ‘Do you know the craziest thing about all this?’ he says.