The Method (6 page)

Still holding his makeshift fishing rod in one hand, Moritz stretched out his arms and put on a saccharine voice: ‘Step forward, please. Major histocompatibility complex class B11. Slim hips, brown hair, twenty-four years of age, perfect health. Premium goods.’

‘Who’s next, then?’

‘Kristine. An absolute dream girl.’

‘Promise you’ll take her seriously.’

‘Doesn’t it go without saying?’ Moritz grinned. ‘Seriousness is the first rule of pleasure. Anyway, how are you getting on with your sixteen-legged microbes?’

‘Microbes don’t have legs.’ Mia poked him in the ribs. ‘Actually, we’re making good progress. Once I’ve—’

‘Look out!’

Mia stiffened as her brother dropped his rod and grabbed her by the shoulders. There was rustling from the undergrowth on the opposite bank.

‘Over there!’ shouted Moritz in mock panic. ‘A great big bacteria with pointed horns!’

‘Don’t be an idiot!’ Mia laughed and wiped her brow. ‘It was only a deer.’

‘Precisely.’

‘I don’t suppose I’ll ever understand what you want from life.’

‘That reminds me … Want to hear something? It’s especially for you.’

Moritz reached for his hygiene mask, which was hanging around his neck, and placed it on his head like an Alice band; then he picked up his rod.

‘In my dreams,’ he intoned, ‘I see a city made for living, where the houses have rusty antennae like spiky hair. Where owls live in the beams of tumbledown attics. Where loud music and twisting ciphers of smoke rise from the upper floors of dilapidated factories, accompanied by the hearty clunking of billiard balls. Where every street lamp seems to shine on a prison yard. Where bicycles are parked in bushes and people drink wine from dirty glasses. Where young girls wear the same denim jacket and walk around hand in hand as though they’re scared. Scared of other people. Scared of the city. Scared of life. Here, in this city, I run barefoot across building sites and watch the mud rising up between my toes.’

‘Infantile and revolting,’ said Mia. ‘Whoever wrote it should be locked up.’

‘Exactly what the judge thought,’ said Moritz. ‘Eight months for sedition.’

He hooked a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and pushed it between his lips. Mia’s hand shot out and whisked it away.

‘Where did you get hold of that?’

‘Honestly, Mia,’ said Moritz. ‘Where do you think? I don’t suppose you brought a light?’

WHEN DRISS WAS
little, she wanted to grow up like Mia. Now she is fully grown and sitting at the top of the stairs barely two paces from Mia’s door, beneath which lies a mat, placed there as a tribute to a bygone age. Driss knows exactly where to sit in order to get the best view from the top-floor window. The apartment block is built on a slope, and the city lies at Driss’s feet. It is an excellent place for dreaming. Most people don’t come up this far, but Driss has brought a bucket and a bottle of disinfectant, just in case.

Her dreams unfold in two-dimensional Technicolor, like old-fashioned films. She usually casts Mia in the lead. Today, for example, she is watching Mia introduce herself to Kramer behind this very door. At first Driss doesn’t really understand the conversation, despite Pollie’s efforts to read to her regularly from
The Healthy Mind
. Kramer seems to be talking about the battle against the People’s Right to Illness: he has chalked up some important victories in the anti-terrorist campaign. Lizzie’s voice has a habit of rising half an octave when the PRI is in the headlines, but Mia listens quietly and asks a few questions. Kramer has never met anyone who understands him so well.

After a while, they fall silent. Driss likes to replay this moment in her head. She zooms in and watches at half-speed as Mia and Kramer, who are sitting side by side on the sofa, turn to each other slowly. They don’t gaze into each other’s eyes; each is focused on the other’s mouth. Kramer puts an arm around Mia. If Driss were to do the same, her fingers would touch the white front door of Mia’s apartment. She feels the hairs on her slender neck stand on end, she closes her eyes and holds her breath. In a moment, Kramer will lean forward and kiss Mia as people used to in movies when they didn’t know about the risk of oral infection.

Driss feels a tingling in her nostrils. She opens her eyes and sniffs. There is a strange smell. She scans the landing and takes two more vigorous sniffs. No doubt about it: smoke. In an instant she is on her feet and racing down the stairs.

‘Fire!’ she shouts. ‘Fire!’

At the end of the landing, behind the white door, Mia is lying on the sofa with the ideal inamorata, a cigarette between her lips and a blackened match on her thigh.

‘This is it,’ says Mia, taking a long drag on the cigarette, ‘this is exactly how Moritz smelt.’

‘You’d think he were here,’ says the ideal inamorata, reaching out two fingers to take the cigarette.

DRESSED IN HER
black robes, Sophie looks not unlike a nun without a veil. She has come to accept the likeness and knows it could be worse. At least when she puts the statute book under her bottom she no longer looks like a nun who’s too small for her chair. The furniture in the courtroom dates back to an era when judges were more stately. The problem is exacerbated by the ergonomic guidelines for workplace safety, which haven’t been properly adhered to. On some days, admittedly few in number, Sophie hates her job.

Barker is thin and nervous today, as though his robe is concealing a bag of loose bones. The private counsel, this time in mufti, is alone in the public gallery, staring out of the window, apparently uninvolved. The clerk has got a new hairstyle – or maybe her grandma has come to the courtroom instead. She scans the defendant’s arm: Mia’s chip is in the same place as everyone else’s, in the middle of the bicep, just beneath the skin. Sophie refreshes herself with oral disinfectant, ascertains the identity and presence of the various parties, and opens the hearing with the words: ‘Is this your idea of a joke?’

‘No, Your Honour,’ says Mia, her face expressionless.

‘Two days ago, you gave me your word. Do you remember what you promised?’

‘Yes, Your Honour.’

‘Do you know why you’re here?’

‘Abuse of toxic substances,’ interrupts Barker for the prosecution. ‘In contravention of Article 124 of the Health Code.’

Sophie places both hands on the lectern and leans forward as she fixes Mia with an angry glare. ‘This isn’t a conciliatory hearing,’ she hisses. ‘No discussion or mediation. You’re a defendant, not a respondent. This, Frau Holl, is a criminal trial.’

This time Sophie’s angry face appears for longer. It looks out of place with her ponytail.

Mia says nothing.

‘What did we discuss two days ago?’

Mia still says nothing.

‘Do you think I’m stupid? Is this a game to you? Answer me, Frau Holl!’

Mia tries to answer. She looks up, fills her lungs with air and opens her mouth. She would like to give the right answer, not least because she wants to please the nice judge. But the right answer won’t come to her, and this is a terrible shock for Mia, as if she has suddenly realised that something fundamental about her life has changed. In Mia’s world, it is customary for there to be an answer to each question or to be precise,
one
correct answer to every question. In Mia’s world, a person’s mind doesn’t slosh like water around her head.

‘Moritz,’ she says, and the voice seems to come from somewhere else in the room, ‘Moritz said smoking a
cigarette
is like journeying through time. It transported him to other places … places where he felt free.’

‘The prosecution moves for the defendant’s comments to be noted in her file,’ says Barker.

‘Rejected,’ says Sophie. ‘The defendant’s statement shall be heard in full.’

‘Forgive me, Your Honour,’ says Barker with a special smirk: the same smirk he brought out for Sophie when he was arguing with her at law school, ‘I was under the impression the court would be bound by the rules of criminal procedure.’

‘Absolutely,’ says Sophie, ‘and in accordance with Article 12 of the Health Code, I will hold you in contempt if you interfere with my examination of Frau Holl.’

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.’

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.