The Method

  ‘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.’

  Not Made to Be Understood

  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.

  Personal Matter

  ‘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.

  Pointed Horns: Part I

  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.’

  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?’

  Smoke

  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.

  No More Mediation

  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. ‘Thi
s 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.’