The Method

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, children! Look at their uniforms! It’s the Agency.’

  The commotion can be heard throughout the building. It draws the neighbours in their dressing gowns up the stairs to Mia’s open door. On the other side of the door frame, a Method Defender has taken out a syringe and is waiting for his colleagues to restrain the demented woman. Blood is streaming from his nose and he sways unsteadily.

  ‘They’re taking Mia away.’

  ‘There must be some mistake.’

  ‘Mia is a heroine! It was in the papers!’

  ‘Frau Holl is our most cherished resident.’

  Despite limited vision through his swollen right eye, the Method Defender sees his opportunity and acts. The syringe comes down into Mia’s upper arm.

  ‘No!’

  ‘It’s their job, Driss.’

  ‘It’s not our place to get involved.’

  ‘Driss, come back!’

  Only when Mia’s body slackens are the Method Defenders able to tear the cushion from her grasp. The man with the bloody nose tosses aside the syringe and kicks the cushion. When the willowy Driss throws herself against him, he brushes her off with one hand. Driss collides with the door frame and sinks to the floor. The uniformed men step over her as they carry Mia away from the apartment.

  Statue of Liberty

  ‘DYNAMITE!’ SAYS ROSENTRETER.

  ‘Did you bring the mirror?’

  Rosentreter rummages in his briefcase and pulls out a compact mirror. Mia leans towards the Plexiglas to examine her reflection. She is dressed in white paper overalls again. A large bruise adorns her forehead. Her lower lip is swollen, and one of her eyes looks red. In the mirror she catches the gaze of someone she knows. It isn’t hers, so it probably belongs to Moritz.

  ‘Great,’ says Mia. ‘Paper overalls, solitary confinement, a battered face. I couldn’t get closer to my brother than this.’

  Rosentreter quickly puts away the mirror. ‘Your proclamation was pure dynamite. It’s why they came for you. A sign of weakness. They’re scared.’

  ‘What’s the charge?’

  ‘There is no charge, Mia. You’re on suicide watch.’

  ‘You can’t say they haven’t got a sense of humour. There’s nothing more frightening for the security forces than people who want to die. They can’t be controlled: they’re suicide killers.’

  Rosentreter clears his throat; he is visibly uncomfortable. ‘I’ve filed a suit at the High Court,’ he says, tugging at his hair. ‘Your proclamation hit home, but from now on we need to be really careful.’

  ‘Tell me about my triumphs.’

  Rosentreter perks up and produces a pile of newspapers from his briefcase. He holds up the first one against the Plexiglas.

  ‘You made the front page: 10,000 CROWD DEMANDS RELEASE OF MIA HOLL.’ He puts the newspaper away. ‘They’re standing out there with megaphones and placards. Nothing like this has happened for decades. I really wish you could hear them.’

  ‘I can hear them,’ says Mia.

  ‘Listen to this,’ he says, picking up another paper. ‘FRAU HOLL PUTS A HOLE IN THE SYSTEM. If only the hacks were more imaginative with their puns! Here’s another front-page story: METHOD UNDER ATTACK. It’s written by a Herr Wörmer. He wants the Method Council to re-evaluate the Method’s validity. And this one includes a letter signed by the PRI. The Alliance has come out in your support; its leadership is threatening to take action if the Method fails to admit responsibility for the death of Moritz Holl.’

  ‘The PRI? Tell them I’m not interested. Killing innocent people isn’t what I’m about.’

  ‘You may not have a choice. From now on there are two of you. The first Mia is sitting right here and … her lip is bleeding.’ He signals discreetly and she wipes her mouth. ‘The second Mia belongs to everyone who wants her on their side.’

  ‘Has Kramer made a statement?’

  ‘Not really. He’s supposed to be appearing on television tonight. He’s been damaged badly by all this.’

  ‘Good. He misjudged the situation.’

  ‘Which makes him all the more dangerous.’

  ‘Far from it. It makes him weak.’

  ‘Mia, please, I beg you not to talk to him.’

  ‘Who else is going to visit me?’

  ‘You always insist on doing things your way.’ Rosentreter puts away the newspapers and keeps his briefcase on his lap as if he needs something to hold on to. ‘I got you all wrong.’

  ‘Really? I thought you wanted a puppet to fight the battle for you while you wrung your hands in lawyerly despair. Well, that’s exactly what you’ve got.’

  ‘The flaws in my character are beyond question,’ says Rosentreter. He is doing his best to hold Mia’s gaze. ‘The trouble is, I didn’t expect things to move so quickly. I have no idea what will happen next.’

  ‘Let me explain. Every now and then, a unifying figure comes along and people realise they’re not alone with their doubts. The sceptical and the estranged, the lonely and the unhappy come together and discover the joys of community. I am the projection screen for their joy. A picture on a white wall. Full body shots. Naked, front and back. A statue of liberty, made of flesh and bone.’

  As Mia straightens up and points an imaginary torch into the air, the guard in the corner lifts his chin threateningly, prompting the prisoner to sit down.

  ‘The pheromones of togetherness can turn the lonely into a powerful force,’ she says.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ says Rosentreter, who has been suffering lately from dry eyes. He blinks. ‘I’ll get you out of here in no time.’

  ‘I’m not worried,’ says Mia. ‘If you don’t get me out, the others will.’

  The Healthy Mind

  ‘EVEN AS A young man Heinrich Kramer was committed to serving humankind.’

  The voice doesn’t sound like Wörmer’s, although the programme is What We All Think. We see a man on the sofa, staring straight ahead. Dressed in a grey suit, he looks perfectly calm and unruffled – an icon of self-possession, untroubled by salivary glands, sweat ducts or bowels.

  ‘In the wake of recent political developments we have invited him to present what is likely to be the fullest, most compelling elaboration to date of healthy thinking. Ladies and gentlemen, Heinrich Kramer!’

  The man on the sofa doesn’t bother with introductory remarks. Instead he takes a few seconds, staring silently at the camera, as if looking for someone beyond the lens. The notes in his hand are purely for effect. He will speak from the autocue in his head. Heinrich Kramer has devoted his life to repeating the same ideas dressed up in different words. This isn’t a sign of limited imagination, but of the limited number of ideas that humans are able to draw on. There is no greater service that a man can perform for his country than repeating the right ones incessantly.

  Kramer talks for twenty minutes, during which time he stares fixedly into the camera. He is making an important proclamation, as we can see from the earnestness of his expression. It would take a brave person to switch off the television and go outside. The streets are empty, like in the olden days when everyone stayed home to watch the World Cup Final. But since no one is prepared to miss Kramer’s proclamation, there is no one to witness the overwhelming absence of human beings in the streets. The whole country is hanging on Kramer’s words as he summarises his argument in support of the Method, each carefully worded proposition advancing with implacable logic towards the crowning point. His audience listens as he works his way through the usual line of reasoning: well-being is dependent on cleanliness and security, a lack of cleanliness is bad for the individual, inadequate security is bad for society, and faulty attitudes and faulty surveillance are responsible for disease.

  The good bit comes last. Kramer talks about viruses that use uncleanliness and danger for their own ends, infecting individuals and society alike. He says the most dangerous viruses consist not of nucleic acids, but of infectious thoughts. At this point he stops. The silence c
ontinues for so long that his audience breaks into a sweat.

  The Method, he says when he finally breaks the silence, is the country’s immune system. And the Method has identified the latest threat. The virus is being destroyed. No one can escape the ability of a healthy body to heal itself. Santé, and goodnight.

  Already the sofa is empty and Kramer has left the studio. His exit conveys a message that everyone can read: words must be followed by deeds. The meaning of Kramer’s proclamation is clear to all. It marks the beginning of the end in the case of Mia Holl.

  Colourless, Odourless

  IT IS CRAMPED inside Mia’s cell, as if the absence of furniture has shrunk the four walls. There are no chairs at the missing table. A lack of bed occupies the space beneath the window, and there isn’t a wardrobe to hide the absent shelves. The whole room is replete with clinical cleanliness.

  After only four days Mia is ready to welcome anyone into her cell. She needs help in occupying a space that even the furniture has abandoned. Kramer suits this purpose perfectly. A room that Kramer enters isn’t empty. He brings the suggestion of furniture with him, or maybe he is the furniture, elegant but functional. Mia struggles to hide her excitement when he walks through the door.

  ‘And your theories,’ she says by way of a greeting, ‘are as colourless and odourless as you are. They remind me of filtered water.’

  ‘I’m glad you liked the programme – I specifically asked them to let you watch.’

  ‘Something tells me your proclamation didn’t achieve the same impact as mine.’

  ‘Which is why I’m here – the two of us need to make some progress, take a step in the right direction.’

  ‘The two of us?’ Mia can’t help laughing.

  ‘Why not? You allowed me in here: you seem perfectly willing to talk. Besides, isn’t there something glorious about the clash of our manifestos? You and I, warriors on opposing sides, visors lowered and weapons in our hands. Reason versus emotion. The rigour of my logic against the maelstrom of your feelings. The masculine versus the feminine, if you like.’

  ‘A primitive analogy, Kramer, and beneath your intelligence. Besides, I haven’t lowered my visor; I’ve opened it. And unless I’m much mistaken, the people are cheering me on.’

  ‘If only they would content themselves with cheering. You’ve heard the news, I assume? The PRI is threatening to kill innocent people if the Method doesn’t agree to your release.’

  ‘You can’t fool me that easily, Kramer. The innocent people you’re so afraid for: they’re cheering outside. I’ve got nothing to do with the PRI.’

  ‘Society will hold you responsible if the terrorists strike.’

  Mia laughs again. ‘It’s funny, isn’t it? You want to paint me as the aggressor, and what happens? You cover me with blood. Just look at me, Kramer!’

  ‘Gladly. The split lip is rather fetching, by the way.’

  Mia leans back against the wall and spreads out her arms; clad from head to toe in white she looks like a crucified angel.

  ‘Your suit is cut from the finest cloth,’ she says. ‘Mine is made of paper. I didn’t lock myself in this cell; I didn’t call for my arrest. All I did was make a pronouncement that you chose to publish. You’ve got friends in high places. They let you stroll in here, while my lawyer speaks to me through a screen. Go ahead and hold me responsible, but maybe you should ask yourself who’s guiltier: the fly swatter or the fly.’

  ‘Isn’t it fascinating how Christian mythology continues to haunt our ideas? Weakness isn’t the same as innocence, yet humans persist in conflating the two. David takes a swipe at Goliath, and the rabble cheers for the underdog, as if its inferiority should be prized.’

  ‘If Goliath had some manners, he’d offer us a drink and somewhere to sit so we could have a civilised conversation. And besides, I’m hungry. Is deprivation supposed to change a person’s principles?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ says Kramer, confused. Looking around, he seems to notice for the first time that the room is unfurnished. He pushes off from the wall and disappears through the door. Mia, eyes closed and smiling, listens to the voices in the corridor, one of which, although muffled, is diabolically piercing. A moment later Kramer returns with two folding chairs.

  ‘I’m sorry, Frau Holl. If I were running this place, I’d dismiss those barbarians on the spot.’

  ‘Don’t apologise, Herr Kramer. They’re only doing their job.’

  ‘Sarcasm is the sign of a healthy mind; I’m glad you’re bearing up. Please, take a seat.’

  Gallantly he pulls up a chair for Mia and sits across from her at a suitable distance. Once seated, Mia stretches her legs, draws them in again and crosses them at the ankles. Her hands are linked behind her chair.

  ‘You have to learn everything in here from the beginning, even how to sit. The alien sensation of brushing one’s teeth with a prison toothbrush, the awkwardness of peeing while standing, the science of putting on paper overalls … Even language, when seldom used, is a difficult dance.’

  ‘You dance extremely well,’ says Kramer steadily. ‘Now, if I could ask a few questions …’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘You told your lawyer that you’ve never felt so close to your brother.’

  Mia raises her eyebrows. ‘Am I to understand that you’re bugging my conversations?’

  ‘Of course. You’re an enemy of the Method, hence the use of emergency powers.’

  ‘I’m not an enemy of the Method, I’m a suicide risk.’

  ‘It comes to the same thing.’

  ‘Of course,’ says Mia sagely.

  ‘I was wondering how you would describe your brother’s legacy – what did he leave to you personally?’

  A guard appears at the door with a tray bearing two steaming cups and a couple of tubes of food. Kramer rises and relieves him of the tray.

  ‘Allow me.’ Respectfully he places the tubes in Mia’s lap. He puts the cup of hot water on the floor and adds some lemon – three drops, just as Mia likes it. She follows his movements greedily as if the ritual of being served could satisfy a hunger more overwhelming than her physical need.

  ‘Moritz didn’t leave me any material possessions, if that’s what you mean,’ she says at last. ‘But in spiritual terms, he gave me a lot.’

  ‘Would you say that you’re doing his will?’

  Mia sips her water cautiously, puts down the cup and opens the first tube. ‘All his life he did his best to bring me round to his way of thinking.’

  ‘And he’s succeeded?’

  ‘I suppose so. Rather late in the day, you might say.’

  The tube is unscrewed and Mia can’t control herself any longer. Kramer watches pityingly as she squeezes its contents into her mouth.

  ‘After his death, you went down to the river by yourself. You wanted to be close to him.’

  ‘We started going there as kids,’ says Mia through a mouthful of protein paste. ‘He liked to call it our cathedral.’

  ‘How touching.’ Kramer waves a hand, allowing Mia to keep the second protein tube. ‘Was anyone else involved?’

  ‘No one.’

  ‘Excellent, exactly as I thought! One last question. From our current perspective, Moritz is a kind of martyr, don’t you think?’

  ‘Well,’ says Mia, ‘it depends.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Kramer leans towards her. ‘I didn’t quite catch that. Could you possibly speak up?’

  ‘If it were to come to a coup,’ says Mia loudly, ‘Moritz would go down in history as a martyr. Which is a strange idea, by the way.’

  ‘Marvellous.’ Kramer produces a recording device from his inside pocket and switches it off. Then he sinks back in his chair, stretches his arms and checks his cuffs. ‘I think that’s just about everything. All I need is your signature.’

  Mia stops chewing. ‘My signature?’

  ‘You need to sign your confession. You’ll appreciate that the Method is very sensitive about such things.’
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  ‘My confession?’

  ‘I meant what I said about making some progress. In your situation, it’s undeniably for the best.’

  ‘Not like that, Kramer. I make the rules.’

  ‘Please, Frau Holl, there’s no need to get upset. If I can summarise the main points of our conversation, perhaps you’ll understand …’ He pauses, sipping his hot water unhurriedly and gazing into his cup. Then he changes his bearing and leans into an imaginary microphone. ‘Just moments ago, Method Defence confirmed that Moritz Holl has been identified as the former leader of a terrorist cell known as the Snails. The group met regularly in the woods to the south-east of the city, referred to by the Snails as the cathedral. Also part of the group was a certain Walter Hannemann, from whom Moritz received a bone marrow transplant and who was known to Moritz as the man who saved his life.’

  Mia wrinkles her face as if she is about to burst out laughing. ‘You’re out of your mind!’

  ‘Are you aware,’ asks Kramer, ‘that Hannemann took his life? It’s tragic, really.’

  ‘You’ve got his death on your conscience as well.’

  ‘Hannemann is on your conscience, not mine.’ Kramer pulls out a piece of paper and unfolds it with a torturous lack of haste. He paces around the cell, deciding where to stand. ‘Are you listening, Frau Holl? It goes like this: “I, Mia Holl, worked with my brother to come up with the plan. It was simple yet ingenious. Hannemann was to murder Sibylle. As we anticipated, the crime was attributed to my brother, whose DNA was found on the deceased. The Snails regarded suicide as the apogee of personal freedom and Moritz was obsessed with the idea of martyring himself for the cause. After he was found guilty, he killed himself in prison with my help.”’ Kramer glances up and smiles at Mia. ‘We’ve got it on camera. The fishing twine, you know.’

  He traces a movement in the air as if he were threading something long and thin through a tiny opening. When Mia tries to leap up, he raises his hand, stopping her with a priestly gesture.

  ‘One moment, please. I’m almost done. “The scheme was designed to provoke a legal scandal and shake the Method to its core. After Moritz’s death, I took over as leader of the Snails. It was Moritz’s will. The other members of the Snails are known to me only by their code names – their identities were kept secret for their own protection. My contact person was an operative known as No one.” That’s right, isn’t it?’ Kramer pauses. ‘Incidentally, No one is a code name for a younger colleague of mine, Herr Wörmer from What We All Think. Most regrettable.’