The Method (15 page)

‘This had better be going somewhere,’ says Barker. ‘No one asked for a lesson in haematology.’

‘Herr Rosentreter, kindly stick to the matter in hand,’ says Hutschneider, glaring first at Rosentreter and then at the judge.

The screen changes to show a diagram with coloured squares and circles, all with three-letter acronyms: AML, ALL, CLL and other such combinations.

‘Leukaemic cells proliferate in the bone marrow,’ says Rosentreter. ‘As the disease progresses, it is common for the liver, spleen and lymph nodes to be affected and their function impaired. At the age of six, Moritz Holl was found to be suffering from paleness, fatigue and pain in his bones. He also bruised easily.’

‘His whole body was covered in bruises,’ adds Mia. ‘He looked like he’d been beaten black and blue.’

‘Objection, Your Honour,’ says Barker. ‘I can’t see why we should listen to this distasteful—’

‘Bone marrow transplantation,’ says Rosentreter determinedly. ‘It’s the usual treatment, together with monoclonal antibodies and various drugs.’

There is fidgeting and muttering in the courtroom, which Rosentreter assiduously ignores. The fact that the presiding judge is chewing on her pencil persuades him of the need to proceed at greater speed.

‘The classic method of bone marrow transplantation uses stem cells from the bone marrow. In the past, finding compatible donors was extremely difficult. These days, thanks to the Method, every citizen’s tissue type is listed in a database. This allows for mandatory anonymous donations of stem cells. We can say with pride that no one dies of leukaemia any more.’

‘That’s truly heartening,’ says Sophie, ‘but since none of this is relevant, you’ll have to stop there.’

‘Just a few more words,’ says Rosentreter. ‘The actual procedure is pretty basic. The donated material is transferred via a cannula to the recipient. The bone marrow finds its way into the bones and ten or so days later, it starts to generate new blood cells.’

‘This is going too far!’ exclaims Barker.

‘We should call the court bailiff,’ says Hutschneider.

‘Or notify the Agency,’ adds Weber.

‘Your Honour,’ calls Kramer from the public gallery, ‘I strongly recommend you put an immediate halt to this performance!’

His voice cuts through the hubbub, resonating so sonorously that it seems to come not from him, but from the ceiling. The gallery falls silent. Kramer’s commanding tone is strangely at odds with his bearing. He is sitting ramrod straight, with his hands on his knees. His face has paled and his mouth continues to move silently, as if he were explaining the situation to himself. He looks like a man who, for the first time in his life, has been overtaken by events. Yet Kramer is the only person in the room who knows where Rosentreter is heading; he knows what the lawyer has found. He and Mia look at each other. Right now, his silent lips might whisper,
The system is human. Of course it is flawed
.

‘Herr Kramer,’ says Sophie, ‘you are not a member of this court and you have no right to comment.’

If the proverbial pin were to drop now, it would be heard by everybody in the room. Even Rosentreter has frozen in front of the screen; his next sentence is trapped in his throat.

‘Please accept my apologies,’ says Kramer. ‘Unfortunately, circumstances compel me to—’

As Kramer rises to his feet, Rosentreter comes back to life.

‘After the transplant, the patient’s blood group will match the donor’s,’ he says with the urgency of a marked man whose only chance of escape is speed. ‘Their immune system will match and so will—’

‘Rosentreter!’ shouts Kramer.

‘—their DNA!’

The defence counsel raises an arm as if to banish Kramer to his seat with the power of the occult. The
image
on the screen changes. We see the face of an unknown man, approximately fifty years of age, head shaven and skin lined with deep wrinkles that make the photograph look like a drawing.

‘This,’ says Rosentreter, ‘is Walter Hannemann, the probable murderer of Sibylle Meiler. He was Moritz Holl’s donor.’

‘I knew it, Moritz!’ shouts Mia, looking up to the ceiling. ‘Please believe me, Moritz! I knew it all along!’

The situation breaks into its constituent parts. Barker leaves his desk, grabs Rosentreter by the sleeve and talks furiously at him without stopping. The security personnel, overwhelmed by the chaos, grab Mia by the shoulders, while Hutschneider yells frantically into his phone. The spectators leave the gallery, led by the journalists, shouting over each other in preparation for the briefing with Mia Holl. In the fields beyond the city, the turbine blades turn ponderously in the changing wind. In the midst of the tumult, Kramer is slumped on the bench, inspecting his cuticles and smoothing his already immaculate hair. Sophie, whose blonde hair is draped loose about her shoulders, makes no attempt to hide her face, even though tears are flowing down her cheeks. An alkaline salty solution, thinks Mia, watching attentively as Sophie continues to cry. A fluid secreted from our glands when the body is subjected to the shock of pain – physical or emotional. It also contains traces of mucin and protein, as we have learned elsewhere.

‘Sophie,’ says Mia, ‘it is not your fault.’

It is impossible to tell if the judge hears Mia above the noise. They will never see each other again.

DRISS HAS BOUNDED
up the steps with giant strides and jammed her finger against the buzzer on Lizzie’s door. She doesn’t let go until someone opens. It isn’t Lizzie, it’s Pollie. She stands there, pale-faced, as if she has seen a ghost.

‘Quick, turn on the television!’ Driss is still speaking when she notices the noise. The television is on already, in every single room of Lizzie’s flat.

‘Stem cells,’ says Pollie. ‘Legal scandal. Can’t make head nor tail of it.’

‘Because you’re thick!’ shouts Lizzie from the kitchen. ‘The courts, the police … You can no longer count on anything.’

‘Look, there’s Mia!’ Driss is still standing in the doorway, apparently rooted to the spot. She points to the pictures on the screen. Mia’s face is about to vanish behind the microphones.

‘She didn’t do anything wrong, I knew it!’ Impatiently, Driss fends off Pollie, who is trying to pull her inside. ‘I was the only one who did!’

‘Frau Holl,’ says the voice of a reporter, ‘were you surprised by this morning’s revelations?’

‘He was my brother. I knew him.’

‘Frau Holl, how are you feeling right now?’

‘I’m ashamed of myself. I believed in his innocence, but maybe not strongly enough.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘I believed he was innocent, but I failed to draw any wider conclusions.’

‘Frau Holl, the Method is responsible for a gross miscarriage of justice. Is it still a legitimate system, in your view?’

‘I’m not going to answer that …’ says Mia.

‘Did you hear that, girls? She’s not going to answer!’ calls Lizzie across the hallway.

‘… but it’s a question I’ll
ask
myself every day.’

‘That’s our Mia!’ says Driss.

And here comes Mia in person. She is coming up the steps with Rosentreter. She is wearing normal clothes again, and she is staring at her feet.

‘Mia,’ says Driss as the pair reach the landing, ‘we’re so sorry.’

‘
She’s
so sorry,’ says Pollie.

‘Don’t look at me!’ yells Mia. ‘You’ll get the plague! Tuberculosis, cholera, leukaemia!’

Pollie reaches out and yanks Driss into the apartment. The door slams shut.

‘This way,’ says Rosentreter. ‘Up the stairs.’

‘THAT,’ SAYS ROSENTRETER
, ‘was what you might call a maximal triumph!’

Rosentreter cracks open a bottle of contraband champagne. He is celebrating a historic moment, the overture to a magnificent political oratorio, and whether or not he hears the oratorio, he wants to revel in the overture and savour the unforgettable beauty of its parts – the dull roll of the timpani, the heartbeat of a system on the verge of collapse; soaring trumpets, the media hitting previously unattainable notes; the soothing tones of the harp, political assurances and promises; and the frenetic playing of the string section, public opinion.

‘You know the best bit? The first violin is absolutely silent!’ Rosentreter laughs and slaps his thigh in delight. Then he fills two tumblers with champagne.

Mia is standing at the window and watching as the night sky works itself up for a summer storm above the city. She feels like a passenger who, after days of waiting on the platform and peering into the hazy distance, has finally seen the train arrive – from the other direction. The champagne poured for her by Rosentreter is gradually getting warmer in her hands.

The defence counsel’s glass is already half empty; the champagne lifts him like a magic carpet. Rosentreter is no more accustomed to alcohol than to courtroom success. He never shone as a student; his good grades testified to the fact that his professors liked him, not that he was suited to the law. He has waited half his life for this moment. Even so, Rosentreter has no intention of losing his head over this. Granted his picture is being beamed into every living room in the country, and he could step outside onto Mia’s roof garden and address the excited crowds. But Rosentreter is smart enough to know that Fortune tends to favour the strongest, which makes her an unreliable friend.

‘A good composer,’ he says, ‘follows the boldness of the overture with a peaceful first movement. We’ll lie low for a while. Plan the next move carefully. I like to work in the background, always have done. Santé!’

‘Santé,’ says the ideal inamorata, swigging from the bottle behind his back.

Mia hasn’t been listening to the overture; Mia is watching the storm. The street is lit on one side only, so the shadows of the trees lurch drunkenly across the apartments in the opposite block. They seem to clutch at each other’s hands as they stumble along. The wind gusts through every aperture in the building, riding on open doors and riffling through documents on desks. It rattles the blinds like castanets, fills the swings and see-saws with invisible children bobbing crazily up and down, and applauds itself with a sheet of tarpaulin on some scaffolding. On the rooftops, everything is banging and clattering as if a group of gods were playing skittles up
above
. Where are the people? The storm has driven them inside where they lie in their bedrooms, trying to sleep like animals in crates, doing their best to ignore the rumbling and roaring of nature, tortured by their awareness of the insignificance of their tiny, puffed-up lives in the
pas de deux
between the city and the sky. Human beings aren’t part of the game; they aren’t even spectators. At most they’re dead leaves, swept aside and abandoned in the gutter.

‘No interviews,’ stipulates Rosentreter. ‘No TV appearances. Keep yourself out of the public eye. That’s why there are delivery companies, couriers and telecommunications. Stay indoors! Mia, are you listening to me?’

He reaches in vain for the champagne bottle, which the ideal inamorata has moved to the left.

‘You should be celebrating,’ says the ideal inamorata. ‘I know your lawyer talks too much, but he’s actually talking sense.’

The storm has reached the turbines; they spin faster and faster, the blades appear to evanesce. Mia imagines the thrum becoming louder, swelling to a roar, and the turbines lifting off the ground, a formation of a thousand aeroplanes, with only their propellers in sight. They lift their noses towards the sky and make a steep ascent, pulling the city with them.

‘From now on,’ says Mia slowly, ‘
his
name negates all reason. From now on, I’ll do everything for love and free from fear.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ says the ideal inamorata.

‘I’ve finally understood what you’ve been saying all this time. It’s not enough to
believe
someone. It’s not even
enough
to
know
they’re innocent. It’s about professing your loyalty.’

‘Exactly,’ says the ideal inamorata. ‘Now come here and have a drink.’

‘Listen,’ says Mia.

‘I’m listening,’ says Rosentreter with a tipsy smile. This is his first taste of alcohol.

‘Mia,’ says the ideal inamorata, ‘you haven’t been yourself for weeks and now you’re too much like you.’

‘I mean,
really
listen.’ At last Mia turns away from the window, takes a step into the room and looks at the ideal inamorata. ‘The Method,’ she quotes, ‘demonstrated its fundamental injustice by killing my brother – step two.’

‘True,’ says Rosentreter as the ideal inamorata lowers her eyes to the floor, ‘but we need to move carefully.’

‘Step three – I’ll call someone. But it won’t be him.’ She laughs in Rosentreter’s face. ‘He’s here already. Step four – compose a broadside. Step five – publish it.’

‘Mia,’ pleads the ideal inamorata, ‘take a moment to think things through.’

‘Dear heart, you were the one who wanted me to do something. You wanted a flagship, a figurehead.’

‘Mia,’ says Rosentreter cautiously, ‘who are you talking to?’