The Method (5 page)

‘What did I tell you, Frau Holl? You’re in perfect working order. Tiptop condition, as I like to say.’

Mia looks up at him.

‘You thought I was ill? That I was holding back my data because I had something to hide … Do I look like a criminal?’

The doctor is already removing the wires.

‘It wouldn’t be the first time, Frau Holl. True, but sad, as I like to say.’

Mia pulls her jumper quickly over her head.

‘You have a nice day, Frau Holl,’ the doctor calls after her.

SOPHIE’S STUDENT PONYTAIL
bounces merrily back and forth as she scans the medical data on her desk. For no particular reason, she is in a good mood. For Sophie, good moods are a habit, just as people of more nervous dispositions are inclined to bite their nails. Sophie studied law because she loves it, and her love of law became a profession, a career that allows her to do something worthwhile. People thank her for it.
Most
people thank her for it. And Mia Holl, Sophie can tell at a glance, is definitely one of those people. As soon as Mia walked into the room, her bright eyes and intelligent face struck Sophie. Mia’s nose is possibly too large for her face. Large noses are a sign of obstinacy, which in this case is balanced out by a soft mouth, pleading silently for harmony. Sophie is an excellent judge of character, she thinks.

‘Very good,’ she says, closing the medical dossier and pushing it aside. ‘Excellent, in fact.’

Sophie is touched by the way the respondent is chewing her lower lip. Mia Holl, though several years older than Sophie, has the air of a helpless child.

‘I’m delighted you’re here, Frau Holl, although I wish you hadn’t declined our offer of mediation. This is an
official
civil hearing and I must remind you of your rights. According to Article 50 of the Health Code, you have the right to remain silent – although I’m sure you’d rather talk to me. Isn’t that right, Frau Holl?’

On occasions, Sophie can look like a child as well, a child who wants everyone to kiss and make up. Faced with this look, defendants have no choice but to nod.

Mia nods.

‘Good,’ says Sophie, smiling. ‘Then tell us, Frau Holl, what do you understand by the concept of health?’

‘Humans,’ says Mia, apparently to her fingers, ‘are surprisingly badly constructed. An ordinary juicer, for example, can be dismantled and taken apart. Unlike the components of a human, a juicer’s parts can be cleaned, repaired and put back together.’

‘In that case, you’ll understand why our prophylactic measures for public health are designed for humans, not juicers.’

‘Yes, Your Honour.’

‘So why is it you’ve been exempting yourself from mandatory testing? You haven’t returned a single sample in weeks.’

‘I’m sorry,’ says Mia. ‘I guess.’

‘You guess?’ Sophie leans back and flips her ponytail into place. ‘Frau Holl, I don’t suppose you remember me, but I remember you very well. I was the rapporteur in the case against … uh, in the trial of Moritz Holl. The details of the affair are known to me. I understand what you’re going through.’

Several seconds pass as Mia stares fixedly into the judge’s eyes, then she lowers her gaze.

‘We can’t change what happened,’ says Sophie, ‘but the Health Code offers a number of solutions for people in your situation. I could appoint a medical counsellor to help you – or order a stay at a health farm, if you prefer. We could choose a nice spot in the mountains or by the sea. You’ll have all the support you need to come to terms with your situation. When it comes to your reintegration into normal—’

‘No, thank you.’

‘What do you mean – no, thank you?’

Mia says nothing.

Sophie is mistaken in thinking that the respondent can’t remember her. Mia’s memory shows Sophie as a giant black-robed mannequin at the back of a ghost train, sheltered from the wind by the mannequins in front. Seated behind the presiding judge, the associate judges and the clerks, Sophie is barely visible: pretty, young, her blonde hair in a ponytail, the ultimate phantasm of horror, looking down with her big eyes and solicitous expression at the defendant, his body shrunken from its former size, a gaunt figure cowering in front of the black-robed brigade. The blonde girl’s all right, Moritz had said. She doesn’t mean any harm. Probably none of them do. How would you decide the case,
you
with
your
principles, if you were sitting up there and I weren’t your brother?

‘Frau Holl,’ says Sophie, crinkling her cute little nose, ‘in organic terms, you are perfectly healthy, but your soul is distressed. Would you agree with this assessment?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then why refuse our help?’

‘My pain is a personal matter.’

‘A personal matter?’ echoes Sophie, surprised.

‘It’s like this.’ Mia reaches suddenly for the judge’s hand, a clear violation of courtroom procedure. Sophie sits up with a start and glances about, before allowing the defendant to grip her fingers.

‘No one,’ says Mia, ‘no one understands what I’m going through, not even me. If I were a dog, I’d growl at myself to keep me at bay.’

MIA’S VOICE IS
barely a whisper because she realises that statements about growling dogs aren’t made to be understood. What she wants to say isn’t easy to put into words, and in the presence of a judge, it’s probably good that she isn’t inclined to try. If we were to find the words for her, we would have to imagine that it is night. Mia fights to free herself from her duvet and gets out of bed. Outside, the first rays of light are beginning to water down the thick nocturnal blackness of the sky. This is the time when yesterday becomes tomorrow and for the briefest of moments there is no today: this is the time that the sleepless dread. Mia is stuck in her skin. It traps her like a fishing net. Her face is too small: she runs her fingertips over an unfamiliar arrangement of features, her mouth in an ugly half-grin with only one side turned up – it isn’t her smile.

She leaves the bedroom and her shoulder grazes the door frame. We see her cross the corridor and enter the lounge, pick up a remote control and turn on the stereo, racking up the volume. We don’t hear her scream; we see her wide-open mouth and the way she stumbles, and we think she is going to fall. But Mia keeps going
and
reaches the window, her raised hands thudding against the pane. Knocked back, she takes another run-up and slams both palms against the window. Because of the music, we don’t hear the noise of breaking glass. Carried by her momentum, Mia’s arms pass through the shattering pane, and she snatches at nothing, tipping forward, then catching her balance before she hits the jagged edge of the frame. She grabs at the shards and clenches her fists, her eyes are closed and we see her lips tremble, her eyes looking up beneath their lids. We see her knuckles blanch and blood leaking out between her fingers as if she were crushing something soft and red. Then she unclenches her fists, shakes her arms and fragments of glass fall to the ground. Blood streams past her elbows as she raises her hands and clasps them together. ‘Take it away,’ we read the words on her lips, ‘take it away, won’t you?’ and she moans, as if the thing to be taken is unbearably heavy. Again and again she raises her hands beseechingly, and for a terrible moment we think she might actually be talking to us.

Imagine this: on this particular night and all the others like it, she doesn’t fight her duvet, doesn’t get up, doesn’t run to the window, doesn’t smash the glass, she just lies there, sleepless in the posture of someone sleeping – and now we start to get a sense of what she’s going through.

‘FRAU HOLL,’ SAYS
Sophie, passing the back of her hand over her face, ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to tell me what you mean by
personal matter
.’

Mia jumps to her feet and paces around the room as if searching for windows, of which there are none.

‘I want to be left alone,’ she says finally.

‘Return to your seat, Frau Holl.’

‘I’m not a schoolgirl any more. Certain things require time, and that’s what I’m asking for – time to myself.’

‘Frau Holl,’ says Sophie sharply, ‘you’ve committed a series of civil infractions, and now you’re dangerously close to a criminal trial. Please sit down.’

Mia complies and the severity leaves the judge’s features as quickly as it came. Briefly, so briefly it might be a trick of the memory, we caught a glimpse of an angry face.

‘I’d like you to think about this carefully,’ says Sophie. ‘What would happen if you fell ill?’

‘I’d see a doctor.’

‘Who would pay for the doctor?’

‘I … I can afford to pay.’

‘And if you didn’t have the means? Would society let you die?’

Mia is silent.

‘Good sense dictates that society should look after your health in times of need,’ says Sophie. ‘By the same token, the onus is on you to ensure such circumstances don’t arise. Do you see?’

‘I wouldn’t mind being ill,’ says Mia stubbornly.

‘Frau Holl,’ exclaims Sophie, ‘do you have any idea what you’re talking about? Have you ever felt physical pain so intense you feared for your mental health? Do you know how dreadfully people suffered in the past? They watched themselves die by degrees and they called it
living
. Every step of the journey was a risk, a step towards perdition; a twinge in the chest, a tingle in the arm, and the end was in sight. People lived in constant fear of foundering on themselves; fear was
life
for these people. For humans to have risen above this condition is a blessing, don’t you think?’

Mia is silent.

‘I see you agree with me, Frau Holl. Avoiding all forms of illness is in your interest, and your personal interests coincide with those of the Method on this point. Oneness of purpose is the foundation of our system: there can be no room for personal matters when the general good and individual interests are connected in this way.’

‘I know,’ says Mia softly.

‘You’re not setting out to undermine the principles of the Method, then?’

‘I’m a scientist, Your Honour. People in my profession know better than anyone that biological organisms seek to achieve well-being and avoid pain. Political systems are legitimate only if they serve these goals.’ Mia wipes
her
palms on her trousers. ‘I’m not trying to be difficult, Your Honour. I’m not myself any more, I’m probably talking nonsense, but I’ve always supported the Method.’

The conciliatory expression returns to Sophie’s face. ‘Exactly as I thought. Your final submission please.’

‘I’d like to be left alone.’

‘Are you sure?’ Sophie opens the file with a sigh and picks up a pencil. ‘I could refrain from prescribing auxiliary measures, I suppose.’

‘That would be helpful.’

‘On one condition,’ says Sophie. She looks up, pencil poised. ‘From now on you’ll stay out of trouble.’

‘I’ll try.’

‘No, Frau Holl. You will do more than try. This is an official warning. Give me your word.’

Mia raises an eyebrow, then raises her hand.

‘There’s no need to worry,’ she says.

WE’RE GOING TO
switch tenses for a while. Mia finds it painful to think of her brother in the past tense, but the rest of us will be fine.

‘There’s no need to worry,’ said Moritz.

‘You smell funny,’ said Mia.

‘I smell
good
. I smell human.’

‘Your future partner might not think so.’

‘Let me tell you a secret. So far my future partners have found me pretty hot.’ He grabbed her hand. ‘Come on.’

‘Moritz! Can’t you see?’ she protested. ‘The path ends
here
!’

‘It always has done!’

There followed a tug of war, with Moritz grabbing Mia and dragging her along with both hands until she came of her own accord. Ducking under low-hanging branches, they tramped through the undergrowth. The path belonged to them. Beside the river was a little clearing shaded by trees. Moritz called it ‘our cathedral’. A place of prayer, he liked to say. By prayer, he meant talking, saying nothing and fishing. Mia didn’t approve of raising the stakes: she liked talking to her brother without it being a religion.

Moritz pulled some fishing line from his bag and snapped a branch from a tree. In no time he had sat down on the grass and cast his line; Mia was still unfolding a tissue to sit on. For a while they watched the water flowing by incessantly while the river remained exactly the same.

‘Claudia?’ enquired Mia.

‘That was her name.’

‘Well?’

‘Lovely girl – an expert at deep-throating. You know what that is?’

Mia held up a hand to stop him. ‘I don’t want to know, thank you. You must be running out of immunologically compatible partners. How many have you got left?’

‘Oh, 3.4 million or thereabouts. The Central Partnership Agency is the world’s biggest brothel keeper – the crooked guardian of the gates to paradise.’