The Method

  ‘Lutz,’ says Rosentreter again.

  They shake hands briefly and let go.

  ‘Mia, I’ve got something to say to you.’ Rosentreter raises his voice to a shout. ‘You’re a bitter, lonely rationalist and you don’t know a thing about happiness! I pity you, Mia Holl.’

  ‘Cripes,’ says the ideal inamorata.

  ‘Fine,’ says Mia furiously. ‘I’m a rationalist! Maybe I’m bitter and lonely as well. But if you insist on pitying me, pity me for this!’

  She jumps up, grabs a photograph from her desk and drops it into Rosentreter’s lap. It is a picture of Moritz on the end of a length of fishing twine. Those unfamiliar with hanging will need to take a second look. A person who hangs himself loses all humanity from his face. His tongue swells to three times its usual size and protrudes from his mouth; his eyes, similarly intent on escaping, leave their sockets. The overall skin colour is blue. Rosentreter looks from the corpse to Mia and back again. In the competition for the greatest personal tragedy, he has lost.

  ‘It’s hard to bear,’ he says softly.

  ‘Since Moritz died,’ says Mia, ‘I haven’t seen the moon. I look out of the window, and it’s gone. Do you think it’s abandoned us and journeyed into space? I wouldn’t blame it.’

  Rosentreter is on his feet as well. He walks slowly towards Mia, as if she were an animal that might bolt at the slightest wrong move.

  ‘Before we all set off for space together,’ he says, ‘I’d like to look at Moritz’s files. I could go over the evidence, maybe reopen the case.’

  The ideal inamorata sits bolt upright. ‘Could you prove his innocence?’

  ‘Who knows, I might be able to prove his innocence. Listen, Mia, I wouldn’t be doing it for you. I’ve been waiting for years to wrong-foot the Method. All I need …’

  ‘If he’s really prepared to do it,’ says the ideal inamorata, ‘we’ll do anything, anything.’

  ‘A chance is all I need.’

  The doorbell rings and Rosentreter stiffens. Mia hurriedly stuffs the photo into a drawer.

  Snails

  THE FEAR LEAVES Rosentreter’s body, strides once around the room and enforces an unnatural hush. If the defence counsel were to reflect on the matter, he would not be surprised to find himself looking at this particular person, a man who is better informed about Mia’s application for exemption than the minister of state. But Rosentreter doesn’t have time to reflect, mainly because it takes him too long. Being nice requires a certain slowness, as well as an absence of courage.

  ‘Santé, one and all,’ says Kramer.

  ‘Hello,’ says Mia.

  ‘Santé,’ murmurs Rosentreter.

  ‘Not him again,’ says the ideal inamorata.

  Kramer looks fantastic. There are two main reasons for this: first, his hat and stick, which are intended to convey the look of a casual flâneur; and second, his almost offensively buoyant mood. He is standing taller than usual and his smoothly shaven cheeks are aglow with the sunny confidence of a well-fed baby. He strolls into the apartment with a silent fanfare.

  ‘Well, well,’ he says, pointing to Rosentreter as if to call attention to an interesting work of art. ‘So the loyal defender of justice is here as well. You’re always at hand when there’s a private interest to be protected, right, Rosentreter?’

  It would be obvious to anyone that Rosentreter is afraid of Kramer. He backs away from him as if he were contagious, only to find himself sitting on the sofa, which has inserted itself obligingly between him and the ground. Rosentreter has known Kramer for years and he knows his gaze, a gaze that distinguishes between the Method’s friends and enemies with the uncanny alertness of a sleepwalker finding his path. Loving the wrong woman isn’t actually illegal, provided it is done from afar, but it makes a person look suspicious. It is well known that ‘love’ is merely another word for an immunologically favourable match. Any other type of relationship is diseased. Rosentreter’s love is a virus that could contaminate society. Over time, he has realised that true loneliness lies not in the separation from his loved one, but in concealing his impossible longings. Unfortunately, Kramer’s ears are almost as sharp as his eyes. In the ensuing silence, Rosentreter tortures himself with the thought that Kramer could have been eavesdropping outside for a while.

  Thankfully, Kramer’s attention seems to be elsewhere. He turns to Mia.

  ‘Frau Holl,’ he says, ‘I’m afraid I’ve got bad news.’

  ‘Break it to me gently,’ she says.

  Kramer walks towards her. For a moment, it looks as if he is about to infringe Article 44 of the hygiene laws regarding mouth-to-cheek contact, but he adjusts his course and walks straight past her, removing his gloves and placing them with his hat and stick on the desk.

  ‘The profile piece we talked about earlier. I’m afraid it won’t happen. Things have moved on.’

  Without stopping to ask permission, he strolls into the kitchen to make himself a cup of hot water.

  ‘It’s a pleasure to see you anyway,’ he calls through the door. ‘For an old news hound like me, the commotion you’re causing is an absolute treat.’

  ‘He’s the one causing the commotion,’ says Mia with her eyes on Rosentreter.

  ‘Interesting,’ says Kramer, poking his head round the door. His eyebrows soar upwards in two sweeping arcs. The ideal inamorata raises her eyebrows and mimics his astonishment.

  ‘What profile piece?’ asks Rosentreter quickly.

  ‘It was his idea to apply for an exemption,’ says Mia.

  ‘Anyone else for hot water?’ asks Kramer.

  ‘Please,’ says Mia.

  ‘Thank you,’ says Rosentreter with a shake of the head.

  ‘I hope he’s not causing problems,’ says Kramer, returning with two steaming cups. ‘I can arrange for him to be replaced. I’d love to know what he’s been telling you for the past thirty minutes.’

  The temperature must be rising in Rosentreter’s part of the room. He runs a finger around his collar and at the same time tries to maintain a professional air. Kramer is leaning against the desk and looking expectantly at Mia over the rim of his cup. Mia is looking at her lawyer, whose face is in a state of hopeless disarray. For a moment, the idea of getting rid of Rosentreter holds a certain appeal.

  ‘Mia!’ says the ideal inamorata in a warning tone.

  Startled, Mia shakes her head as though surprised at herself. ‘Rosentreter’s told me nothing,’ she says at last. ‘We were discussing the evidential weight of a defendant’s confession.’

  ‘In other words,’ says Kramer, ‘you were discussing your brother’s case. Well, at least he wasn’t tortured, which is a mercy, don’t you think?’ Before Mia can reply, he chuckles and carries on. ‘These days we can be thankful that new forms of evidence have replaced the confession. I’m talking about modern-day data collection, of course. It’s impossible to gather too much information.’ He pauses. ‘Come on, Rosentreter, surely you disagree? No …? You astonish me. Usually I have to waste my time explaining that data collection is essential for protecting individuals from false allegations. The more detailed the information about a person, the more fairly we can judge. Isn’t that right, Frau Holl?’

  ‘I think so,’ says Mia.

  ‘Good.’ Kramer sets his cup on the table. ‘Why don’t you tell me about your brother?’

  The ideal inamorata catches her breath and practically chokes. Meanwhile, Rosentreter gets up from the sofa and adjusts his suit. ‘My client doesn’t intend to discuss—’

  Mia looks steadily at Kramer. ‘Why would I talk to you about Moritz?’

  ‘Because you realise the value of more detailed information,’ says Kramer amicably, showing his teeth as he smiles. ‘And because you wouldn’t want me to leap to any conclusions about why a person would turn down a perfectly simple request.’

  Rosentreter is standing right in front of Kramer and trying to look more imposing than he is. ‘You have no right to interrogate my client i
n her apartment,’ he says in an unnaturally deep voice.

  ‘What’s the big deal, Rosentreter?’ Kramer, still in excellent spirits, leaves the desk and starts to pace around the room. ‘I thought you were interested in Moritz Holl?’

  ‘I’m interested in my client.’

  ‘Really?’ Kramer walks around the exercise bike and checks the backlog on the display. ‘Yesterday you asked to see the prosecution’s files on Moritz Holl.’

  ‘It was essential for my client’s defence.’

  ‘You weren’t digging up dirt for the second round?’

  ‘You’re the expert on dirt, not me.’

  ‘In a sense, yes,’ says Kramer, unruffled. He continues his perambulation, pausing to examine the books on the shelf.

  ‘Gentlemen.’ Mia’s head has been flicking back and forth as if she were watching a tennis match. ‘What is this about?’

  ‘It’s about more,’ says Kramer. ‘It’s about the significance of Moritz Holl’s trial. Isn’t that right, Rosentreter? You’re in it for the glory.’ He swivels round suddenly and fixes the lawyer’s face with eyes as clear as glass. ‘Well, deny it, if you will!’

  Rosentreter bows his head, whereupon Kramer nods and returns to the desk.

  ‘Frau Holl,’ he says genially, ‘truth is subjective, even in a court of law. Knowing and believing are remarkably similar – if not, in fact, the same. In difficult cases, therefore, clever people will judge the truth according to its usefulness, not validity.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ asks Mia.

  ‘Your brother,’ says Kramer, ‘is still in our thoughts, albeit for different reasons. He was so damned convincing.’

  ‘He’ll be proposing a self-help group in a moment,’ says the ideal inamorata.

  ‘In the case of Moritz Holl,’ says Kramer, ‘your lawyer is gathering evidence against the Method and I’m working in its defence. Opposing forces often converge – for example, right here in this apartment.’

  ‘You mean, at my brother’s grave.’

  ‘Why not? Yes, we’ve come together in this apartment to look for the truth at Moritz’s grave. But perhaps you can help us, Frau Holl. What was he really like?’

  ‘He loved nature,’ says Mia.

  ‘Don’t you dare discuss Moritz with that monster!’ exclaims the ideal inamorata.

  Mia turns to face her. ‘Isn’t it my role in the world to talk about Moritz?’

  ‘Not to him,’ says the ideal inamorata. ‘He thinks Moritz posed a danger to society; he’s fishing for proof.’

  ‘Then we’ll prove the opposite,’ says Mia. ‘Humans are essentially the packaging for memories; I’m the packaging for Moritz.’

  The ideal inamorata doesn’t reply.

  Rosentreter clears his throat uncomfortably and opens his mouth to speak, but Kramer stops him with a warning glance that Mia doesn’t see. For a moment, the two adversaries exchange understanding looks.

  Mia gets up quickly and walks to the window. ‘Moritz loved nature. As a child, he spent hours studying a single leaf or a beetle. Do you know how many different sorts of beetle you can find in one bush?’

  ‘Loving nature is a necessary precursor to loving humanity,’ Kramer prompts.

  ‘Moritz loved all living things. When he was little he kept snails in a wooden box and gave them names. He said their slowness made them strong. They used to escape from the box at night-time by lifting the lid with their shells.’

  ‘Snails take their houses wherever they go,’ says the ideal inamorata dreamily. ‘Moritz would have liked that.’

  ‘While he was sleeping they slithered around the room. Sometimes he woke in the morning with a snail on his cheek; it made him smile. I thought it was disgusting. We shared a room.’

  ‘There’s nothing disgusting about loving living creatures.’ Kramer has been sifting through the papers on Mia’s desk. Carefully, he opens a drawer. ‘Gastropods aren’t known for their warlike tendencies or weapons of mass destruction, which is more than can be said for man.’

  ‘Moritz took more or less the same view. He thought nobody understood him – our parents, his friends, me. When he was little, he talked more to plants and animals than to us.’

  ‘But you were his favourite animal,’ says the ideal inamorata. ‘He named most of the garden after you. Trees, bushes, flowers, birds, worms – they were all called Mia.’

  Mia nods and presses the balls of her hands into her eyes. ‘When he got sick, the snails had to go. We had doctors in the house, and my parents were worried about the consequences. Moritz never forgave them.’

  ‘Sick?’ queries Rosentreter, surprised. ‘It isn’t mentioned in the files.’

  Kramer shrugs, signalling that Moritz’s illness is news to him as well.

  ‘He was cured,’ says Mia. ‘There was no hereditary component. My parents had the incident deleted from his files.’

  ‘Damned researchers,’ says Kramer. ‘They should have picked up on it. If I’d known he was sick—’

  ‘He got better,’ objects Mia.

  ‘Once sick, always sick,’ says Kramer. ‘It sticks with you.’

  ‘What stuck with me,’ says Mia, ‘is that the Method saved his life.’

  ‘His life? What was wrong with him?’ asks Rosentreter.

  ‘Leukaemia,’ says Mia, turning away from the window. Her gaze falls on Kramer, who is busy examining the photograph of Moritz with his head in a noose.

  ‘The show is officially over,’ she says. ‘Sorry to interrupt your snooping, but I hope you found it helpful.’

  ‘Very.’ Kramer brushes a few specks of dust from his sleeve.

  Rosentreter places a finger on his chin and stares ahead, deep in thought. The ideal inamorata looks at his profile and seems to be thinking as well. Leu-kae-mi-a. The climate of the room has been transformed by the rare conjunction of syllables. But Kramer, clever Kramer, is oblivious to the change. He has collected his hat and stick and is busy pursuing new goals.

  ‘You spoke with the eloquence of a poet. You don’t mind if I quote you?’ he says, his fingers already on the handle.

  With that, he is gone.

  Ambivalence

  MIA’S ATTITUDE TOWARDS Kramer is ambivalent, to use a word beloved of the undecided. She cannot even say that she dislikes him. In fact, earlier that day, when he bent over her attentively to hand her a cup of freshly brewed water, a ritual that assumed an almost absurd perfection in his hands, it seemed to her briefly that she could love him. Not because of his manners – good manners being an agreeable way of disguising whatever one happens to be thinking at the time. And not because of his looks, which like all things of beauty were eroded by familiarity, so that after meeting him for the first time, Mia was unable to find him attractive or unattractive but simply and undeniably there. No, Mia was impressed by the way in which he could serve a cup of water as if it were a sacred act. The attention he lavished on a seemingly unimportant action spoke of a wholehearted and unconditional engagement with the world which Mia, if she is honest, admires. Kramer puts himself wholly and unconditionally into everything he does – walking, talking, standing, dressing. He thinks and speaks with a ruthlessness that makes no attempt to find dialectical excuses for the eternal uncertainty of humankind. Anyone who claims that truth is dependent on usefulness, anyone who openly admits that knowing and believing are essentially the same for limited beings such as humans, is clearly a nihilist in a class of his own.

  Mia replicates his perambulation of her apartment and tries to see her belongings, books and papers through the eyes of a reporter. She too is a nihilist, but in her case, the absence of objective truth leads not, as with Kramer, to an outlook of unconditionality, but to an agonising feeling that nothing is fixed. Mia can find reasons for everything as well as its opposite. She can justify or criticise any given concept or thought; she can argue for and against both sides; in fact, Mia could play chess with or without an opponent and never run out of moves. For a long time now she
has believed that a person’s character consists mainly of rhetoric, but, unlike Kramer, she has never been tempted to apply her conclusions in any particular way. Deep down she suspects that she and Kramer are cut from the same cloth: that she reached a certain point and stopped, whereas Kramer simply carried on. As if he thought there was a goal, as if he thought there was something worth wanting. The crucial question as to what Kramer wants, as to what anyone might want, seems to Mia to find its mystical answer in the perfect way of serving a cup of hot water. For the duration of a few seconds, she was enormously attracted to Kramer.

  Either side of those few seconds, which is how we get to the ambivalence, Mia felt a mild revulsion. It would be possible to rewrite, or in Mia’s case, mentally reshuffle, the information above. The same starting point could be used to construct a different set of arguments; the black chess pieces could be swapped for the white. Then Kramer, the icon of unconditionality, would be an empty striving with a void at its heart. A snoop. A pathetic creature.

  While Mia continues to pace around the room, the ideal inamorata raises herself on her elbows and remonstrates with her. ‘An answer contained in the perfect way of serving hot water? Attracted to your brother’s killer? Do you call yourself a woman?’

  ‘Rousseau,’ says Mia from the bookcase. ‘With a dedication from Moritz at the front. Dostoevsky, Orwell, Musil. Kramer. Agamben, also from Moritz. I haven’t read it.’

  ‘You’re not a woman,’ says the ideal inamorata. ‘A woman knows she’s a woman without checking between her legs.’

  ‘Only 120 kilometres to go,’ says Mia from the stationary bike. ‘The backlog will be cleared in a couple of days.’

  ‘Did they take out your brain so your thoughts could go round in circles? Cut from the same cloth … He’s your enemy, Mia! Call yourself human?’

  ‘Fine,’ says Mia from her desk. ‘I’m not human and I’m not a woman.’ She examines the papers that Kramer inspected earlier. ‘But I’m not a terrorist either.’ She picks up Moritz’s picture and holds it to the light. Behind her, the ideal inamorata blends into the dusk; she keeps perfectly still, as if she weren’t there.