The Method (4 page)

Mia, who likes a dash of lemon in her water, accepts the mug from Kramer. The hot water does her good. Kramer takes a seat in the armchair opposite her and blows into his cup.

‘Do you see what I’m getting at?’

‘The reliability of DNA data can’t be contested in any rational way,’ says Mia softly.

Kramer nods. ‘DNA evidence is infallible. Infallibility is the bedrock of the Method. How are we supposed to explain the need for certain rules, if the rules themselves aren’t unerringly rational and valid – or to put it another way, if they’re fallible? Being infallible requires absolute consistency. It’s simply good sense.’

‘Listen to him, Mia,’ says the ideal inamorata, ‘he’s talking in sound bites. The man is a machine!’

‘Shush,’ Mia tells her.

‘Good sense,’ continues the ideal inamorata, ‘is knowing you’re right without knowing why!’

‘Stop butting in!’

‘I beg your pardon?’ says Kramer.

‘Tell me,’ says Mia, turning to face him. ‘What does infallibility mean in human terms?’

‘I can see where this is going.’

‘How can you expect rules, regulations or procedures to be infallible when they’re devised by humans? Humans change their beliefs, their scientific viewpoints, their entire notion of truth every couple of decades. Haven’t
you
ever asked yourself whether,
in spite of everything
, my brother could have been innocent?’

‘No,’ says Kramer.

‘Why not?’ asks the ideal inamorata.

‘Why not?’ asks Mia.

‘Let’s take the question to its logical conclusion.’ Kramer sets down his cup and leans towards her. ‘What would we get? A legal system of exceptions and anomalies! The fickle rule of the heart, pardoning and punishing with the capriciousness of an absolute monarch. Whose heart should we use? Mine? Yours? With what claim to legality? Would we appeal to a higher authority? Do you believe in God, Frau Holl?’

‘I don’t believe in him and he doesn’t believe in me. It’s mutual.’

‘What about Herr Kramer’s system?’ says the ideal inamorata. ‘He doesn’t believe in rational objectivity – and it doesn’t believe in him!’

‘And emotions?’ counters Mia. ‘They’re hardly a reliable basis for decisions. By definition, they’re merely personal.’

‘Human reason is an illusion,’ says the ideal inamorata. ‘It’s nothing but a vessel for the sum of your feelings.’

‘Anachronistic, romantic claptrap,’ snaps Mia.

‘It didn’t kill Moritz, though. Unlike your intellectual sophisms.’

‘Frau Holl!’ Kramer waves a shapely hand as if to dispel a cloud of mist. ‘Please desist from talking to yourself. You’ve lost a brother, not your confidence in the system.’

‘Which Moritz despised,’ throws in the ideal inamorata.

Mia casts a warning look in her direction and walks to the window. It is a beautiful day, straight from a commercial for protein supplements. Mia fights back the urge to close the curtains. The sunlight reveals half-eaten takeaways, discarded items of clothing, and dust gathering in the corners. It reeks of the twentieth century. The bright light seems to magnify the chaos with every passing minute.

‘From here I can see two paths,’ says Mia. ‘One is marked misery, the other ruin. I can curse a system founded on a Method to which there is no rational alternative; or I can betray my love for my brother, whose innocence seems as clear to me as the fact of my own existence. Do you see?’ She swings around violently. ‘I
know
he didn’t do it. What course should I take: hell or damnation? Should I fall or should I fall?’

‘Neither,’ says Kramer. ‘In certain situations, the error lies not in the choices you make, but in making a decision at all.’

‘But … are you of all people telling me there are flaws in the system?’

‘Of course.’ His smile, which has never faded, becomes disarming. He looks up at her from the armchair. ‘The system is human, you said so yourself. Inevitably it has its flaws. The human condition is a pitch-black room in which we crawl around like newborn babies, unseeing, unhearing. The best we can do is to avoid bumping heads. Nothing more.’

‘Bumping heads? Mine is in pieces.’

‘Not in my opinion; not from what I’m seeing right now.’ Kramer extends an arm and points at the middle
of
Mia’s forehead. ‘You need to rise above all this. By all means, grieve for your brother; grieve all you like. But while you’re grieving, go back to normal life. You’ve come to the attention of the authorities because of certain lapses.’

‘In certain situations …’ begins Mia, but Kramer is shaking his head.

‘You don’t need to justify yourself to me, Frau Holl. You’ll be invited to a conciliation meeting by the court. Be sure to accept. And tidy up! Scrub the visible signs of despair from your life. It’s still
your
life, remember. You need to assume control.’

‘I fully intend to,’ says Mia softly.

‘I’m pleased to hear it.’ Kramer leaps up energetically as if to take charge of the clean-up operation.

Mia eyes him dubiously. ‘You’ll need a bucket if you’re going to scrub away the visible signs of my despair.’

Kramer immediately puts his hands in his pockets and changes his pose.

‘Which leads me to an interesting question,’ continues Mia. ‘You’re a busy man with no shortage of suitable people to talk to. Are you planning to adopt me?’

‘In other words,’ says the ideal inamorata, ‘what the hell are you doing here?’

‘I’m here,’ says Kramer, ‘to make a suggestion.’ He strolls around the room, stopping briefly to check the computer on Mia’s exercise bike which is displaying a line of zeros.

‘Everything we’ve been discussing affects the whole country, not just you. It won’t be long before the first
journal
articles are published – the case of Moritz Holl, as described by leading experts in sociology, psychology, politics and law. The incident will rise to become the queen of footnotes, referenced in every academic paper: Moritz Holl, the man who was proven guilty by the Method and pleaded innocent in the face of the evidence. How? Why? What led to the sudden disjunction between private interest and public good? These questions cut to the heart of our society; they’re fundamental questions about the workings of the Method, questions we should never stop asking and discussing.’

Mia follows him around the room with her gaze. Her face shows astonishment.

‘Asking? Discussing? Are you suggesting I … critique the system for your newspaper?’

‘I’d like an in-depth conversation with you. I want to write about you, Mia. A profile piece for
The Healthy Mind
. Gone are the days when journalism was a travelling circus; we don’t pack up and move on when the show is over.’

‘Ha, that’s a good one,’ says the ideal inamorata. ‘I’d laugh out loud if I could.’

‘With your help, I could show that tragedies and contradictions are inevitable even in a well-ordered system like the Method. We could demonstrate why it still makes sense to follow the path of reason. A good citizen shouldn’t follow the crowd like a sheep. A good citizen should work through periods of doubt and crisis to emerge a stronger supporter of the common cause. People would understand it, coming from you. Have a think about it, Frau Holl. It wouldn’t do you any harm.’

‘If you agree to it,’ says the ideal inamorata, ‘I’m leaving you.’

‘You can’t,’ says Mia. ‘You’re a present from Moritz.’

Kramer stiffens. ‘You’re starting to frighten me, Frau Holl.’

‘THAT’S ANOTHER THING
I wish we’d done,’ says Mia.

If we peer through time as if it were a gauzy robe veiling the body of the Eternal, we see Mia and Moritz in a bare room at the remand centre, four weeks ago at most. They are looking at each other attentively, as if seeing each other for the first time.

‘Namely?’ asks Moritz.

‘I wish we’d had time to find you a woman.’

They are separated by a wall of Plexiglas, at the centre of which is a star-shaped constellation of small holes. Through these holes Moritz and Mia can talk to each other; if they move a little closer, close enough to anger the guard, they can even smell each other.

‘It’s all right,’ says past-tense Moritz, ‘I invented one instead.’

‘One what?’

‘An ideal inamorata. She can be a bit moody, but most of the time we get along fine. I’m not lonely.’

When Moritz moves, his white paper suit, which has replaced his clothes for the past six months, starts to rustle. He presses two fingers against the screen; Mia does the same on the other side. This time they get
away
with it: Mia is supplying the guard with sachets of illicit caffeine powder from the lab. She and Moritz look at each other and smile. They have learned to smile when really they want to scream, smash things or just cry.

‘Tell you what,’ says Moritz, ‘you can borrow her. Take her home with you.’

‘You want me to take home your imaginary lover?’

‘It’s a great idea. That way it will be easier to believe we’ll see each other soon. The ideal inamorata will steer you back to me. She won’t last long at your place, I bet.’

‘You need a certain amount of imagination for a game like that.’

Moritz frowns just as he always frowns. It looks as if his whole face is trying to congregate around a point between his eyes. ‘You’ve got plenty,’ he says. ‘Ever since we were little we’ve been meeting in the realm of imagination.’

‘It was
your
realm.’

‘It was
ours
; it
is
ours. It will always be
our
home; yours and mine. Remember that.’

For a moment they glare at each other like enemies, a pair of cowboys on a dusty road. The wind rushes past, blowing their hair in the same direction. They square off, a brief skirmish, then Mia feels herself give in. The truth is, she wasn’t really trying in the first place.

‘OK,’ she says, ‘I’ll take your imaginary female if I must.’

His forehead smooths easily; the mind behind it is accustomed to getting its way. ‘She’ll be waiting in your apartment,’ he whispers. ‘She’s my present to you; you’ll
learn
to love her, you’ll see. And now … I need a favour from you.’

In Mia’s fingers is a clear plastic cord, which she feeds through a hole in the Plexiglas. With small movements of his thumb and index finger, Moritz pulls it through the screen. It takes time. The guard inspects his fingernails and yawns. When the cord has passed through the hole, Mia and Moritz stand up.

‘Life,’ says Moritz softly, ‘is an offer you can also refuse.’

They imagine hugging each other, standing a tiny distance apart so their chests don’t quite touch.

‘So long,’ says Mia.

IT ISN’T THAT
she didn’t try. She cleared the shelves and surfaces of dirty dishes and empty glasses and stacked them on her desk. She laid out the kit for her blood test and placed the beaker for her urine sample on the toilet cistern, where it remained, unused. She vacuumed a corner of the carpet and threw the vacuum cleaner on the floor. Rather than clean the windows, as she intended, she dabbed star-like constellations of dots on the steamed-up glass. Afterwards, she pressed on the dots with two fingers and smiled when actually she wanted to scream, smash things, or just cry. Now the apartment is messier than before and Mia is lying on the sofa in the arms of the ideal inamorata. Her eyes are closed as if she were asleep.

‘I don’t recognise my apartment any more,’ says Mia. ‘It looks strange, like a word repeated and repeated until it’s just a series of sounds. Time seems strange to me, the passing of days. I don’t recognise my life any more; it’s just a set of actions. No meaning, no purpose.’

‘This Kramer is a fanatic,’ says the ideal inamorata, cradling Mia like a child.

‘I’m a woman with a penthouse apartment overlooking
the
city and a special gift for pain. I haven’t been outside in four weeks. That’s the sum of my life. If I turn my gaze inwards, if I listen for signs of activity, a rustling, a whispering, the slightest stirring of a personality, I find nothing. I’m a word that’s lost its meaning because it’s been repeated to death.’

‘He gets a kick out of absolute obedience,’ says the ideal inamorata. ‘Unquestioning sacrifice to the principle, that’s what he wants.’

‘He talked a lot of sense.’

‘He’s a
clever
fanatic.’ The ideal inamorata lifts her arms above her head and holds her wrists together, shaking her hands in the air as if to recall a bathing bird. This is how the ideal inamorata laughs.

SHE WAS BROUGHT
in by two guards in grey uniforms, who apologised politely for the inconvenience and closed the door gently on their way out.

Now Mia, naked from the waist up, is in the examination chair. Her eyes are empty and expressionless. Wires run from her wrists, back and temples. The beating of her heart, the rush of blood through her body, the electrical impulses running through her synapses are clearly audible – an orchestra of demented musicians tuning their instruments. The civic doctor is a good-natured man with manicured fingernails. He passes a sensor over Mia’s upper arm as if he were scanning a tin of beans at the checkout. Her picture appears on the wall, accompanied by a long list of medical stats.