The Method (7 page)

‘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.’

‘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.

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 no 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.

‘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?’

‘You’re not far off with your reference to the twentieth century.’ Kramer takes a sip of water and nods at a pretty production assistant, who rushes over to refill his glass.