The Method Page 5

  Barker presses his lips together as if there is something bitter in his mouth that good manners obliges him to swallow. Sophie massages the back of her neck and nods for Mia to continue.

  ‘I feel the need to be close to him,’ says Mia. ‘As if death were a hedge that we could slip through with a bit of cunning. I still see Moritz, even though he’s dead; I hear him, I talk to him. I spend more time with him than ever. I’m always thinking about him; I can’t do anything without him. The cigarette tasted of Moritz: of his laughter, his zest for life, his need for freedom. And now I’m sitting here in front of you, exactly like him.’ Mia laughs. ‘We’re closer than I ever thought.’

  ‘Frau Holl,’ says Sophie in a considerably calmer voice, ‘I’m going to adjourn the proceedings and assign a counsel for your defence. After what you’ve said, I can’t in all conscience allow you to continue. However, since you ignored my previous warning, your earlier infractions must be punished. What does the prosecution recommend?’

  Taken unawares, Barker leafs through his notes and in his haste fails to find what he is looking for.

  ‘Fifty days’ wages,’ he says at last.

  ‘Twenty,’ rules Sophie. ‘The hearing is closed.’

  Once the two black-robed mannequins have left the room, Mia is alone in the dock. In the public gallery behind her, the private counsel gets to his feet, steps forward and waits for Mia to turn round.

  ‘Rosentreter,’ he says. ‘I’m your new lawyer.’

  Nice Guy

  HE IS CLEARLY a nice guy. A little on the tall side and his fringe is a fraction too long: hardly a moment goes by without him pushing it away from his face. In fact, his fingers are constantly occupied, examining the contours of objects around him, checking his clothes are sitting properly, disappearing into his trouser pockets and emerging an instant later to clap an acquaintance on the shoulder – but his palm never touches the shoulder. Rosentreter’s fingers are like a commando unit from the prophylactic health service, always on the go. At present they are engaged in a tactile examination of the tabletop, hence his stooped posture, which could otherwise be attributed to stomach cramps.

  ‘I’m honoured,’ he says. ‘Truly honoured.’

  ‘What’s so honourable about a case like this?’ Mia averts her gaze so as not to stare at his belt buckle. Rosentreter takes a step to the left, two steps to the right and decides to sit down. He manoeuvres the chair so he is facing the dock, where Mia is seated.

  ‘First of all, my heartfelt condolences, Frau Holl. The last few months must have been hellish; you’ve coped admirably well.’

  ‘If there were anything admirable about my coping, neither of us would be here.’

  ‘Which,’ Rosentreter says brightly, ‘would be a shame.’ He stops smiling when he notices that Mia, for good reason, doesn’t share his point of view.

  ‘All of this,’ he says, starting afresh and indicating the courtroom with an expansive sweep of the hand, ‘is just procedure. Procedere. A bureaucratic process set in motion by a particular type of action. It’s like pressing a button. You mustn’t take it personally.’

  Mia watches as he unpacks his briefcase in search of a contract that will invest him with the authority to act in her defence. The hint of a smile crosses her face as he drops a sheath of pens.

  ‘What did I tell you?’ says Rosentreter, straightening up. His cheeks are bright red. ‘The court system can’t be that bad; not if people like me are allowed to work here. I knew your brother, by the way.’

  Mia, about to sign her name, pauses.

  ‘Really? Another pen-pusher in the army of mannequins—’

  ‘I work for my clients!’ Rosentreter’s hands are flapping like startled birds. ‘I’m the private counsel! It’s my job to read the Method Defence bulletin for this jurisdiction every month. What more can I say?’

  For a while he looks straight at Mia, as though he genuinely wants her to tell him what to say. He blinks a few times; his fringe is in his eyes.

  Under normal circumstances, Mia would find him unbearable. He is precisely the sort of supposedly lovable clown who drives her up the wall. A man like Rosentreter keeps family photos in his wallet and shows them around in the supermarket queue. He is the sort of person who turns up late because he stops to help panicking strangers who are desperate not to turn up late. When asked about the meaning of life, he will make some crack about an ancient film. This is his idea of humour. To be honest, Mia only likes people with sharp minds and a willingness to put their intellect to the most effective use. She divides humanity into two categories: professional and unprofessional. Rosentreter very definitely belongs to the latter category. No amount of crying, screaming and waking in a cold sweat could be more revealing of Mia’s present state than the fact that, despite everything, she is glad of his company. She feels herself relaxing with every breath.

  ‘I never met Moritz in person,’ says Rosentreter eventually. ‘Only his virtual trace, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘I’m not a lawyer. You’ll have to speak plainly.’

  ‘Of course, absolutely. It’s very simple. Your brother was on the blacklist.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Here and here,’ says Rosentreter, pointing to the contract with his pen. Mia finally signs. ‘He was under surveillance by Method Defence.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous. There must be some mistake. Moritz wasn’t an enemy of the Method. That’s …’ Mia laughs. ‘It’s like pointing at a deer and seeing a great big bacteria with horns.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Never mind! Look, I’m willing to admit he was a bit of a child. He definitely had his own ideas. But he wasn’t the type to join a group – especially not some shabby little protest movement.’

  ‘Shabby little protest movement … of course not,’ says Rosentreter in a soothing tone. ‘I don’t know why I mentioned it … Let’s forget about it, Frau Holl! Just a few brief words on the legal technicalities, which, as your counsel, it’s my duty to explain. When it comes to certain charges, our legal system can be somewhat oversensitive. If a defendant becomes implicated in anti-Method activities, it puts the case on a different footing, so to speak.’ Right now, Rosentreter doesn’t look like an oversized boy; he looks like a fully grown man who is genuinely concerned. ‘Do you see what I’m saying? I’m telling you why the judge adjourned your trial.’

  ‘Don’t be absurd.’

  ‘I’ll do my best but it won’t be easy,’ says Rosentreter, reverting to a boyish grin.

  ‘You could start by acting like a proper lawyer. How are you going to handle my defence?’

  ‘First we’re going to contest the fine.’

  ‘What’s the point? Twenty days’ salary is affordable; if we contest it, you’ll charge me the same amount in fees. I’d rather pay the fine. I committed the infraction: I’ll accept the penalty and put it behind me.’

  ‘I commend your intentions, but that’s not the way it works. Law is a game, and everyone plays a part. I’m your defence counsel and as such I intend to defend you.’

  ‘What or whom are you defending me against, Herr Rosentreter?’

  ‘Against the charges laid by the prosecution – and against the court’s intention to hold you responsible for a situation that isn’t your fault.’

  ‘I’d rather conduct my own defence.’

  ‘How exactly, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  ‘By doing nothing and keeping quiet.’

  ‘That would be madness. You don’t seem to grasp what you’re up against. They’ll accuse you of subverting the Method.’

  Shaking her head, Mia raises an index finger and points it at Rosentreter’s chin. ‘How old are you? Sixteen? We are the Method: you, me, everyone. The Method is reason; the Method is good sense. I told the judge, and I’ll say it again for your benefit: I’m not against the Method. And for the last time, I’d like be left alone. It’s all I’m asking. I’ll work things out on my own.’

>   ‘Can you do it by tomorrow morning?’

  ‘Maybe not entirely.’

  ‘In that case, you’ll need my help.’

  ‘Are you short of clients?’

  ‘On the contrary.’

  ‘Why waste your time on me?’

  ‘I want to help. I take my job seriously. The particulars of your situation fall easily within the criteria for an exemption – a first-year law student could tell you that. Now let’s get one thing straight.’ He leans forward and pats the air above Mia’s shoulder. ‘You’re not in the least bit to blame. Not even for smoking the stupid cigarette. I’m not going to stand by while they take shots at you.’

  Because Rosentreter is so damn right, or because Mia damn well hopes he’s right, she finds herself close to tears.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says, clearing her throat. ‘Taking shots is exactly how I’d describe it. It’s good to know we agree on something … But I don’t want any trouble; I need some time to reflect, that’s all.’

  ‘Absolutely, absolutely,’ says Rosentreter, beaming. ‘You do the thinking; I’ll do the dirty work.’ When Mia doesn’t laugh, he says, ‘I was joking. I’ll need another signature. Here and here. That’s right, Frau Holl.’

  Monitored

  ‘MIA!’ CALLS DRISS.

  ‘Frau Holl,’ says Pollie, ‘we were hoping—’

  ‘At least have the decency to stop,’ barks Lizzie furiously.

  Mia is in a hurry to get to her apartment. With a shopping bag in each hand, she breaks through the blockade of mops and buckets and is about to climb the stairs when Lizzie grabs her sleeve.

  ‘You can’t just run away from us!’

  ‘Mia,’ says Driss, ‘I’m really sorry. I didn’t do it on purpose. I really thought your apartment was on fire.’

  ‘I hope you don’t think any of us would denounce you,’ chimes in Pollie.

  ‘Frau Holl,’ says Lizzie, ‘we’re here to help. If there’s anything we can do …’

  Mia makes a break for freedom by stepping to the side. ‘Thank you. You’re very kind, but there’s really no need.’

  ‘Oh, but there is,’ says Pollie.

  ‘Of course there is, Frau Holl,’ says Lizzie, gripping Mia’s sleeve. ‘This is a monitored house and we look after each other. Especially if someone happens to be in trouble.’

  ‘Mia,’ says Driss, ‘you don’t understand: it’s not the way it seems!’

  Driss would like to carry Mia’s shopping for her, make her a cup of hot water and explain things from the start. She would like to explain that she, Driss, is Mia’s and Kramer’s greatest admirer; that she was only trying to save Mia from the flames. Her eyes are glassy with despair.

  ‘It seems pretty straightforward to me,’ says Mia to Driss. To the others, she says, ‘Thank you, ladies, but you’re blocking the stairs.’

  ‘The stairs belong to us as well, you know.’

  ‘This is a monitored house, Frau Holl.’

  ‘It needs to stay that way.’

  ‘Have we made ourselves clear?’

  Lizzie tightens her grip as Mia struggles to break free. Mia hugs her shopping bags and rams her shoulder into Lizzie. The movement is too vigorous. Lizzie has a foot on one step and the other a step higher, with buckets everywhere. She falls, buckets clatter and miniature cascades of soapy water drench the landing, while Mia flees up the stairs.

  No one calls after her.

  You’ll pay for that, you’ll pay, says an echo in Mia’s head.

  Centre of Operations

  MIA HAS NEVER had much regard, let alone affection, for her body. The body is a machine, a walking, talking, ingesting apparatus; its principal responsibility is to function without a hitch. Mia herself is at the centre of operations; she looks out through eye-windows and listens through openings in her ears. Every minute of every day she issues instructions in the full expectation that her body will carry them out. One such instruction is to exercise.

  Over the past few weeks, her stationary bike has accumulated a backlog of six hundred kilometres. Mia starts pedalling and thinks about – what? For the sake of simplicity, let us assume her thoughts turn to Moritz. The probability that we are right in our assumptions is very high. Mia herself is aware that she has never thought about Moritz so much as now, after his death. She wonders if this is normal. Or whether thinking about her dead brother is a frantic attempt to keep him alive with the power of her mind. Perhaps, though, she isn’t trying to save Moritz, but the rest of the world, the future of which depends, as Mia has come to see it, on Moritz continuing to breathe, talk and laugh.

  This much Mia has grasped: the centre of command can issue instructions to the body, but not to itself. The head can’t stop itself thinking. Mia, in spite of this knowledge, thinks she has a chance. If an overgrown child like Rosentreter can muddle through life, it should surely be possible for someone like her. She cycles faster. The twentieth virtual kilometre is already behind her. She must teach herself to think of Moritz at the same time as going about her normal life, not instead.

  ‘Seven units of protein,’ says the ideal inamorata, who is lying on the couch. She rummages through Mia’s shopping bags. ‘Ten units of carbohydrate. Three of fruit and veg. Exemplary. We’re on the road to recovery, are we?’

  ‘When I’m done with this,’ puffs Mia, ‘I’ll clean and tidy the apartment. You’ll see. In a few days, I’ll be back to work as normal.’

  ‘Good intentions are peculiar things,’ says the ideal inamorata. ‘A powerful expression of their own irrelevance.’

  ‘I’d appreciate a little more optimism. “Law is a game, and everyone plays a part.” It sounds like Moritz, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Moritz wanted to be in charge of his own game.’

  ‘You might be right.’ Mia wipes the sweat from her forehead with her sleeve. ‘In any case, he’ll have to resign himself to having his lines rescripted by the rest of us. He’s the one who decided not to play.’

  ‘I’d like to propose a different metaphor,’ says the ideal inamorata, picking up a protein tube and pretending to quote from the packaging. ‘A single cognitive error contains the recommended daily amount of self-delusion for a typical healthy adult.’ She lifts her head and looks at Mia. ‘Want to know the truth? This isn’t a game.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Come on, Mia, you’re not going to fill the yawning crack inside you with Rosentreter and some exercise. The damage runs deeper, Mia. It isn’t about you personally; it runs through this country, and it started with the decision that individual pathologies are a luxury we can’t afford. You’re being eaten away on the inside by the rot at the heart of the system.’

  ‘You represent Moritz, and I respect that,’ says Mia. ‘You want to keep alive his memory; that’s your job. But don’t presume to know what I’m like on the inside. Even Moritz didn’t understand me. He thought I was weak and conformist.’

  ‘And the truth is …?’

  ‘I’m smart enough to know that fighting the system is narcissistic.’

  ‘The human condition is a pitch-black room in which you crawl around like newborn babies under constant supervision in case you bump heads. Is that what you mean?’

  ‘Pretty much. Where did you get that? It sounds familiar.’

  ‘From your new friend, Heinrich Kramer.’

  ‘Maybe we were wrong about him,’ says Mia. ‘He’s a media personality; he might be entirely different underneath.’

  ‘Appearance versus reality? Not that old chestnut! The person who appears to be Kramer, the person responsible for condemning an innocent man, is only a cover for the real Kramer, who doesn’t agree with any of Kramer’s views! Or do you think it was all an unfortunate mistake?’

  ‘What’s your problem?’ Mia, who has been pedalling furiously, comes to a sudden stop. ‘I don’t want to argue.’

  ‘What they did to Moritz was either right, or it was wrong,’ the ideal inamorata says sharply. ‘There’s n
o middle ground. It’s up to you to make a decision. Now come on, Mia, darling. Come over here.’

  ‘But I haven’t finished.’

  ‘I said come here!’

  Mia wavers for a moment, then slides from her exercise bike and walks to the couch. The ideal inamorata knocks the shopping to the floor with a sweep of her arm and flicks on the TV.

  People’s Right to Illness

  ‘WE SHOULD TAKE a moment to consider what it stands for: PRI or People’s Right to Illness, that is, a radical affront to healthy thought.’

  The presenter, Wörmer, is half Kramer’s age and half as famous. We can tell this from looking at him. Next to Kramer, he looks like the nervous young editor of a school magazine. He has dedicated his career to following in the footsteps of tonight’s guest. Wörmer is the host of his own talk show, What We All Think. He asked Kramer to appear as his guest, and Kramer agreed. This is the crowning moment of Wörmer’s life so far.

  ‘You’re an expert on anti-Method activities,’ says Wörmer. ‘How does it feel to be up against people who are obviously intellectually impaired? Do you worry for your sanity?

  ‘Absolutely not,’ says Kramer, his left arm dangling casually over the side of his chair. His right hand holds a glass, which he twists from side to side, sometimes looking into the water as if it were a crystal ball. ‘The members of the PRI are in no sense intellectually impaired. We’re not talking about outsiders, dropouts or the underprivileged. They’re normal people and by no means unintelligent. The PRI isn’t a form of organised crime; it’s a network. The opponents of the Method work together in loose association. Structurally, it adds to the threat – a movement governed by coincidence and chaos is very difficult to combat.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ says Wörmer. ‘It makes you wonder how a well-balanced system could give rise to such irrationalism – a twentieth-century throwback, I suppose … Well, what else can you tell us about these people, Herr Kramer?’