The Method Page 17
See above. See above, see above and see above. See the beginning of the century, the end of the century, the middle of the century. See above.
Finished
IT IS POSSIBLY the most peaceful moment in weeks, or maybe months. The bed is comfortable, the room is clean, the temperature is regulated. Mia has been washed, massaged and fed. She has been dressed in a neoprene suit that protects the skin from frostbite. She has been carried in and placed on a machine that looks as harmless as a sunbed with its glass panels and tubes. Even Hutschneider and Kramer no longer look threatening; they look no larger or smaller than life. Kramer is cooling Mia’s brow with a damp cloth. He checks she is lying comfortably and offers her a sip of hot water from a mug. It would be easy to imagine him tucking her up in a freshly laundered white duvet. Mia is tired. Vita minima or suspended animation. She thinks fearlessly of the slowing of her heartbeat, her increasingly irregular breath, the failure of her eyes. Mia knows it is merely the evaporation of lachrymal fluid during flash-freezing that takes away the human look, the absence of which inspires such dread. Who needs a look when there is nothing left to see? Even the spasms have almost stopped. What is the point of shaking your head if you don’t know whom or what you are saying no to?
‘Let it be noted,’ says Hutschneider, ‘that Frau Holl was informed of the medical implications in accordance with the Health Code, Article 234. The procedure was overseen by Judge Hutschneider. Also in attendance was Heinrich Kramer at the convict’s request. The convict was given the opportunity to make a last request. Frau Holl, what is your final request?’
Mia is pleasantly weary; it takes a while for her to realise that he expects an answer. ‘Do you really still ask that?’
‘It’s classical,’ says Kramer.
‘In that case, a classic request. I’d like a cigarette, please.’
Kramer is visibly delighted; he almost claps his hands with glee. ‘Did you hear that?’ he shouts. ‘I knew it!’
He produces a silver cigarette case and offers it gallantly to Mia.
‘You can’t just—’ protests the judge.
‘You’re a killjoy,’ says Kramer, relaxed. He lights the cigarette.
Mia takes a long drag.
‘The convict requested …’ Hutschneider looks up from his notepad. ‘I can’t do it! Not in the official transcript.’ He thinks for a moment. ‘The convict declined the opportunity for a final request.’
Hutschneider writes it down. Then he signals to an invisible someone who is operating a contraption behind a pane of mirrored glass.
‘I liked the speech about the guillotine,’ says Kramer. ‘Kill or be quiet. I’d like to quote it in the obituary, if I may. How do you feel?’
‘I feel fine,’ says Mia. ‘It smells of Moritz.’
‘In the name of the Method,’ says Hutschneider.
Slowly, the lid of the apparatus descends. Mia takes another drag on the cigarette and hands it back to Kramer.
‘So I’m being exiled,’ she says softly.
The lid closes. We can’t see much of Mia, just her feet. Cold mist escapes with a hiss through the gaps. Stepping back, Kramer and Hutschneider supervise from an appropriate distance.
This would be a good time for it to be finished, a good parting line. This is the most peaceful moment in weeks or even months.
But the door flies open. Barker rushes in, gasping for breath. In his hands is a document rolled up to form a scroll and sealed in the old-fashioned way.
‘Your Honour!’ he says, still panting. ‘The judgment has been reversed.’
‘Stop!’ shouts Hutschneider.
At once the hissing stops and the cold mist begins to disperse.
‘Thank the Method,’ says Barker. ‘That was close.’
‘What’s going on?’ Hutschneider is so agitated that he almost snatches the scroll from the prosecutor’s hand.
Barker breaks the seal.
Kramer is leaning against the wall in his customary style, arms crossed, with a satisfied smile.
‘The President of the Method Council,’ says Barker, reading aloud, ‘has considered the defence’s appeal and, at the urging of his most senior advisers, has agreed to a reprieve.’
The lid clicks open.
‘Great news,’ says Kramer. ‘You’re saved.’
Mia struggles to sit up. ‘What?’ she asks in a flat voice.
Kramer roars with laughter to see her dismay. He laughs so hard he can hardly breathe.
‘Herr Kramer,’ says an agitated Hutschneider, ‘I don’t understand …’
Kramer is too busy laughing to do anything but point at Mia. ‘The condemned woman!’ he splutters when he is finally able to talk. ‘See how disappointed she is? She honestly thought the Method would turn her into a martyr. What kind of incompetent system creates cult figures to be worshipped by the fickle population? Jesus of Nazareth, Joan of Arc – death gave them immortality and lent weight to their cause. It’s not going to happen to you, Frau Holl. Get up, put on your clothes, go home! You’re …’ He dissolves into laughter again. ‘You’re free!’
‘No,’ whispers Mia.
Barker, slowly catching on, twists his face into a grin.
‘That’s enough now.’ Hutschneider glares furiously at Kramer, who wipes away the tears of laughter and regains his composure.
‘No!’ screams Mia. ‘You can’t do that! You’ve got to keep me here! You owe me that much!’
‘Find her a psychologist,’ says Barker to Hutschneider. ‘Appoint a personal counsellor. Re-socialisation, that’s the key. Put her in a home with medical supervision. She needs training for normal life.’
‘Leave it to me,’ says Hutschneider.
‘Trust-building exercises. Political education. Method coaching.’
Still talking, the two men leave the room. Kramer’s hand rests on the doorknob.
‘Farewell, Frau Holl,’ he says.
Mia, alone in the room, shakes her head.
For only now is she, only now is the game, only now is it all truly finished.
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