The Method Page 16

  ‘Kneel.’

  Kramer looks at Mia, who is balanced helplessly on the chair; then he drops to his knees and continues to talk. He looks old-fashioned, like a Christian at prayer.

  ‘It didn’t occur to me until yesterday,’ he says, ‘and I haven’t stopped thinking about it since. It seemed to me that I’d dealt with life’s key questions in my youth. I’d always assumed that a well-regulated human life consisted of four main stages. The first twenty years are spent thinking. In the next twenty, you speak; in the third stage, you act; and in the final stage, you return to thinking. I recently made the transition from speaking to acting.’

  ‘Put your hand on the tiles and run your finger along the gap,’ says Mia.

  Kramer does as he is bidden and slots a finger between the tiles. ‘Then you came along. Suddenly I’m back in a thinking phase again.’

  He sounds in a good mood. Still on his knees, he raises his head to look at Mia as if expecting her to rejoice in his intellectual rejuvenation. But Mia’s attention is focused on something closer to hand. Summoning all her remaining strength, she sits straight in her chair and screws up her eyes, straining to see.

  ‘Have you found it?’

  Kramer gets up, holding a long needle between his thumb and index finger. ‘Do you mean this?’

  ‘Well done,’ says Mia. ‘Now come over here.’

  Kramer stands in front of her obediently. ‘Don’t you want to know what I’m thinking about?’

  Mia takes the needle from him and shakes her head – this time, intentionally.

  ‘You accused me of fanaticism,’ says Kramer. ‘But you’re the one who wants to die for your freshly minted beliefs. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?’

  ‘Bend down.’

  Kramer bends at the hips and places his hands on his knees like a goalkeeper. His face is level with hers. As they look at each other in close-up, Mia raises the needle and points it at his right eye.

  ‘The question is,’ he says, ‘how can you tell the martyr from the fanatic? I chose my side decades ago and I’ve sacrificed everything. I’ll continue to sacrifice everything, including the most valuable human possession: my time on this Earth. Meanwhile, you chose your side yesterday and you’re intent on sacrificing your life in a struggle you’re going to lose. Surely that makes me the martyr and you the fanatic?’

  Mia holds the needle millimetres from his eye. ‘Aren’t you scared?’

  ‘No,’ he says.

  ‘That’s the difference,’ says Mia. ‘I am. My fanaticism is a weaker, paler version of yours.’ She lowers the needle. ‘Can you believe I went to the trouble of getting this needle because I wanted to jab you in the eye and pierce your brain. That’s how much you mattered. I’m wiser now: the sharpest weapons should be directed against the self.’

  Kramer doesn’t try to stop her. A few seconds ago, he watched while she threatened him with a needle, now he watches while she prepares to harm herself. Wrinkling his nose in disgust, he steps back as she rolls up her left sleeve, pats her upper arm and raises her right hand. The speed of entry isn’t curbed by doubt. The needle buries itself in Mia’s arm, deep below the skin.

  ‘Which of us,’ asks Kramer, turning away, ‘is the criminal now?’

  ‘If you’re starting to doubt yourself,’ says Mia through gritted teeth, ‘don’t worry. I assure you: no one is more despicable than you.’

  Blood is coursing down her arm, forming crimson pools on her paper suit. Twisting her head as far as possible to get a better view, Mia grips the needle firmly and drags it in circles to open the wound.

  ‘This here,’ she says, ‘is your work. You are the needle, the arm, the blood. You are the rightful owner of the sorry remains of what used to be a contented woman – whatever that means. You should listen to yourself, Heinrich Kramer. First you destroy me; then you accuse me of having nothing to lose. I like a man with a sense of humour!’ Her head shakes uncontrollably as she is seized by a spasm. ‘See how you value your superior reasoning, your analytical distance! You pride yourself on not being a fanatic, but do you know the truth? You’re worse than a fanatic: you’re a fanatic embarrassed by your fanaticism. Shall I tell you what makes that especially repellent?’

  ‘By all means. But have pity on me, Mia. You’re making me nauseous with all that digging into your flesh.’

  But Mia has no intention of halting her investigation into the bleeding wound.

  ‘A fanatic,’ she says, ‘is someone who clings to his ideas like a child to his mother’s skirt. He wants to be mummy’s darling; only then will he be happy and fulfilled. But that’s not enough for Heinrich Kramer. He wants to be mummy’s darling and he wants to despise her.’ She laughs. ‘You style yourself as a free thinker and a martyr, but it all comes down to a conceptual sleight of hand.’

  ‘Mummy’s darling … A telling analogy, don’t you think?’

  ‘Only with regard to you. Your mother is the Method and you’re shuddering with desire for the prime position at her breast. Maybe my last task on Earth is to teach you what it means to be an adult. Watch carefully – ah, here it is!’

  Mia is crouched over her arm. She digs her fingernails into the wound.

  ‘You’re talking like a bad loser,’ says Kramer. He sounds less sure of himself than usual.

  ‘Winner? Loser? You’re wasting your time! Who do you think is going to judge us? We’ve climbed too high, the storms are below us, the air is too thin. We can scream, but we won’t get an answer; we won’t even hear an echo. You want to know if you’re a fanatic or a martyr? No one is going to tell you. You’re asking questions of the void! You want to cast yourself as a good person in spite of everything; a better person than me? Go right ahead. The universe doesn’t care. And neither do I.’

  ‘This isn’t a moral dilemma; I merely wanted to know—’

  ‘Look, Kramer, a present for you.’ Mia holds out her hand and offers him the bloody microchip from her arm. ‘Take it. It’s me. It is rightfully yours. Turn it into a pendant or something.’

  ‘Thank you,’ says Kramer, taking out a white handkerchief and picking up the chip.

  ‘The rest of me stays here and belongs to no one, therefore to everyone.’ Mia allows herself to slide sideways off the chair to the floor. ‘Completely vulnerable; completely free. A sacred state. You can go now. The rest of me wants to sleep.’

  Kramer starts to say something and stops when he realises her eyes are already closed. For a few seconds he gazes at her peaceful face, then he shrugs.

  ‘The false pride of the martyr,’ he says. But even he doesn’t seem to trust the scorn in his voice.

  See Above

  ‘FORGIVE ME, MIA. I’m so sorry.’

  Everyone is there. In Mia’s blurred vision, the courtroom stretches to infinity, the rows of spectators filling her view. She looks in vain among the black-robed mannequins for the woman with the blonde ponytail. Instead she sees that the middle chair has been claimed by a grey-bearded judge. She recognises him from last time, and she didn’t know how to get through to him then.

  Mia is so distracted by the commotion that she barely pays attention to the hands that a moment ago were gripping the bars of her cage, or to the voice begging forgiveness over and over again. We can assume that the hands and voice belonged to Rosentreter, who has vanished from Mia’s view. Perhaps they have dragged him away. Mia finds it not unpleasant being locked in a cage. She is a theatregoer, watching the spectacle from a private box. The only irritation is the hissing of the atomisers, one in each corner of the cage, releasing clouds of disinfectant. The pauses between squirts are like the moments of darkness in the flickering light of the cell where Mia suspects she lost her mind. Everything she can see and hear seems to have sprung from a crazed imagination. The black mannequins are presiding over crowds of shouting and chanting people. From what Mia can make out, they are calling for her head, although she can’t see the use of a head without its contents. At the front of the room, the bearded j
udge, who looks even more miserable than usual, bangs his gavel.

  At last it is still. A doctor in a white coat approaches the cage. Mia shrinks away from him, as if he were intending to put electrical contacts on her fingers and toes. The guards push her into a corner with their sticks. The doctor reaches an arm through the bars and scans Mia’s bicep. Everyone’s gaze is fixed on the projection wall, which shows an empty rectangle of light. Mia laughs. The atomiser hisses. The scanner emits a piercing beep. The doctor notices the scab on Mia’s arm and hurries to the front of the room to whisper something to the presiding judge, who nods.

  ‘The court is ready,’ says Hutschneider. ‘The Method versus Mia Holl.’

  A black mannequin rises and turns his face towards Mia. It is Prosecutor Barker. As he reads out a practically endless list of charges, Mia slowly begins to grasp what is going on.

  ‘Orchestrating a terrorist campaign,’ says Barker. ‘Conspiring to murder Sibylle Meiler. Attempting to cause civil unrest. Defying the orders of armed officials.’

  Each of the leading players is given a last chance to take to the stage like actors giving a final curtain call. It is fitting, thinks Mia. A nice idea.

  ‘Anti-Method activities. Subverting the Method and its administrative organs. Consorting with persons hostile to the Method. Using violence against representatives of the Method. Inciting civil disobedience. Disturbing the peace.’

  Mia raises her arms, preparing to applaud.

  ‘Conspiring to contaminate the drinking supply. High treason. Leadership of a terrorist organisation. The prosecution demands the maximum sentence: freezing of the defendant for an unlimited term.’

  When Barker falls silent, Mia is the only one to applaud.

  A member of the public leaps to his feet. ‘Stop the witch hunt!’ he shouts. ‘No more show trials!’

  His neighbours pull him back down. A few voices murmur their agreement; others drown them out. Judge Hutschneider uses his gavel.

  ‘Quiet!’ he shouts. ‘Order! Order!’

  Two guards are on the scene, seizing the protester by the arms and marching him out of the room. In her mind, Mia marks them on technical merit and execution: ten out of ten.

  At the front of the room the next black mannequin is on his feet. Mia recognises her lawyer. In her opinion, Rosentreter is overplaying himself. His movements are tediously slow and clumsy and he pulls on his forelock with unnecessary force, apparently intent on removing his scalp. Less would be more.

  ‘Your Honour,’ says Rosentreter, ‘bearing in mind the weight of evidence, the private counsel will not be speaking in Frau Holl’s defence.’

  The crowd gasps. For once, Rosentreter has come to court without his usual stack of files. He picks up a single sheet of paper, smooths it with his fingers and takes a deep breath. He looks like a schoolboy about to read a poem to the class.

  ‘No one is obliged to become an enemy of the Method by representing persons identified by the Method as enemy combatants. Such persons are encouraged to represent themselves. Long live the Method. Santé.’

  Rosentreter sits back down.

  After such a lousy statement, Mia feels obliged to boo. She is joined by someone from the public gallery.

  ‘It’s a set-up!’ calls a voice from the corner and falls silent. The guards have positioned themselves around the courtroom and are scanning the crowd.

  ‘The court accepts the private counsel’s right to self-defence,’ says Judge Hutschneider loudly. ‘Now, moving on to the evidence. Heinrich Kramer, please take the witness stand.’

  Instead of a black mannequin, the next person to rise is a tall, slim figure with a proud profile and eyes as dark as night; a figure who has played the part of the only real person in Mia’s life for days, or maybe weeks, or maybe all her life. As she follows Kramer’s journey to the front of the courtroom, her eyes begin to water, not because of the atomisers, which are squirting disinfectant at her face. She has missed him.

  ‘I swear by the Method to speak the truth, the whole truth, and so forth,’ says Kramer as soon as he reaches the stand. ‘After decades of hard work, we have arrived at a Method that guarantees to every citizen a long and happy life. Regrettably, not everyone appreciates our efforts. The enemies of happiness are numerous and deadly, but the Method will fight them! Our values will be protected.’

  The spectators clap mechanically. Kramer nods and puts a finger to his lips to quell the noise.

  Barker raises his voice to reinsert himself at the heart of the action. ‘Herr Kramer, for the benefit of the court, could you describe your—’

  ‘No one can claim to know the defendant better than I do,’ Kramer interrupts him.

  ‘It’s true,’ says Mia fondly.

  ‘Frau Holl is an enlightened individual – intelligent and self-aware. A strong character.’

  ‘Thank you, Heinrich,’ says Mia.

  ‘A former adherent of the Method, now a dangerous fanatic, Frau Holl is a crusader who wants to die for her cause. The maximum penalty is what she desires. The court respects her as a free human being. The punishment honours the criminal!’

  Once again the spectators applaud, but no one applauds more vigorously than Mia.

  ‘Hurrah!’ shouts someone.

  ‘Quiet, please,’ says Hutschneider.

  Mia nods, claps, cries and shakes her head. She claps so vigorously that she can no longer hear what is being said. At last she stops when three figures come into view. They are dressed in white tabards and walk nervously towards the judge, veering to the left and the right, ready to bolt at any moment. A guard leads them to the witness stand.

  ‘Please raise your hands,’ says Hutschneider. ‘Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?’

  ‘We do,’ says Lizzie.

  ‘So help us God,’ says Driss.

  ‘Don’t mention God,’ hisses Pollie.

  ‘My good ladies,’ says Hutschneider, ‘I call on you to testify that you were present when the defendant’s apartment was searched.’

  ‘We were, Your Honour,’ says Lizzie.

  ‘Mia is a martyr!’ shouts Driss.

  ‘Are you crazy?’ whispers Pollie.

  The spectators whisper and mutter. By now an army of guards has surrounded the public gallery. Several detach themselves and approach the stand.

  ‘What Driss means,’ says Lizzie quickly, ‘is Frau Holl is a terrorist.’

  ‘It’s the same thing,’ says Driss. ‘A martyr and a terrorist!’

  ‘Dirty sympathiser!’ shouts a man from the public gallery, rising to his feet.

  ‘Gag her!’ shouts another, jumping up.

  Hutschneider turns to the guards. ‘Do your damn job!’ he barks. ‘Get the troublemakers out of my courtroom!’

  Driss stares at the uniformed men with her vacant gaze.

  ‘It was in the papers,’ she tells them. ‘But I knew all along: Mia is a good terrorist!’

  ‘Traitor!’

  ‘Get her out!’

  ‘Adjourn the proceedings,’ says one of the associate judges to Hutschneider. ‘Clear the court!’

  ‘The trial will continue!’ calls Heinrich Kramer from among the reporters. ‘We’re finishing this today!’

  ‘Quiet!’ shouts Hutschneider.

  ‘The Method is Murder!’ someone shouts back.

  The man who has just spoken is small with a bullet head and thinning hair. Mia thinks he is probably a programmer. The man sitting next to him drives a fist into his jaw. We can infer from the bullet head’s expression that we are witnessing his first encounter with physical pain. Others join in while three guards charge towards them, grab the bullet head by the arms and drag him from the room.

  ‘You are sacrificing Mia on the altar of your delusions,’ cries someone else as the small man is lifted out.

  ‘Hear, hear!’ shouts Driss.

  Several men are clambering over the railings towards the witness stand. The guards close in around Dri
ss; the first handcuffs her, while his companions swing their batons to beat back the men. Mia watches as Driss is dragged to the door. The time has come for Mia’s moment in the limelight. By rights, the speech should be given by Moritz, but since Moritz is absent, it falls to her. She rattles the bars furiously and the whole cage starts to shake.

  ‘Quiet! Everyone, quiet! It’s my turn!’ Gradually, the activity in the courtroom dies down; heads turn towards her, and at last it is still.

  ‘Raze the system to the ground,’ says Mia. ‘Tear down the edifice! Fetch the guillotine from the cellar and kill! Kill hundreds and thousands, plunder, rape, starve and freeze! The rest of you, hold your peace. You can call it what you like: cowardice or good sense. You can think of yourselves as private citizens, collaborators or disciples of the system, as apolitical or individual, as traitors to humanity or champions of humankind. It makes no difference. Kill or be quiet. The rest is theatre.’

  ‘She’s got some strange ideas for a fanatic,’ says one of the associate judges in the ensuing silence.

  ‘I thought I’d get more of a reaction,’ says Mia. ‘Aren’t you going to applaud?’

  ‘That does it,’ says Hutschneider. Exhausted, he dabs his face with a handkerchief and wipes the sweat from his neck. ‘I’ve heard enough. The defendant is making a mockery of this trial. The hearing is over. All that remains is for the defendant to answer a final question. Frau Holl, is there anyone you would like to be present when the sentence is imposed?’

  ‘Heinrich Kramer,’ says Mia promptly.

  ‘I accept,’ says Kramer.

  ‘Splendid,’ says Hutschneider. ‘In that case, the verdict can be read.’

  He opens a file to produce a document that we can assume was written before the hearing began.

  Mia sits back in her cage, closes her eyes and smiles. ‘Nevertheless,’ she says softly, ‘I still won.’

  ‘First, the defendant is found guilty of anti-Method activities on the following counts: orchestrating a terrorist campaign, conspiring to cause civil unrest, unauthorised use of toxic substances, and non-participation in compulsory testing to the detriment of the general good. Second, the defendant is sentenced to freezing for an unlimited term. Third, the defendant is ordered to pay court fees and all associated costs. The court’s decision was based on the following facts …’