Juli Zeh - The Method

‘That’s where you’re wrong.’ Mia scratched some pebbles from the ground and hurled them into the water. Even as a child she found it irritating when Moritz claimed to know her better than she knew herself. ‘I’m clever enough to know that what you’re saying is nonsense. What would you rather we thought about? God? The nation? Equality? Human rights? Or maybe you’d like to propose your own ghoulish ideal scraped from the battlefield of humanity’s beliefs!’

‘I know what this is about,’ said Moritz, jutting out his chin and somehow looking down on his sister, even though they were both seated. ‘You want everyone to be safe, not because you love your fellow humans, but because you despise them.’

‘Quite possibly,’ said Mia. ‘But you rhapsodise about freedom and higher meaning because you hate who you are. You cloak yourself in phantasmagorical ideals because you can’t stand the sight of yourself. You don’t want to admit that you despise yourself, so you despise the system. You hate yourself so much you think dying would be fun.’

‘It’s got nothing to do with fun or with hate,’ said Moritz angrily. ‘Yes, I could kill myself. The decision to live counts for nothing without the freedom of choosing to die!’

‘You have to turn your back on death if you want to think freely. You have to commit to life.’

‘You can’t be free unless you stop seeing death as the opposite of life. The end of a fishing line and the opposite of a fishing line are two separate things.’

‘The end of the fishing line is the end of the fish,’ said Mia lightly.

Moritz didn’t laugh, didn’t look at her, didn’t reach out a conciliatory hand. ‘The difference,’ he said, ‘is you’ve never confronted your own mortality.’

‘Not that again.’ Mia frowned. ‘What happened to you was dreadful; dreadful but unexceptional — and it certainly wasn’t enough to give you transcendental wisdom. You were five years old!’

‘I was six ,’ said Moritz. ‘I was six and I learned to accept that humans have only one life and a short one at that.’

‘Let’s not forget you were saved by the conformists you like to scorn. Without the Method, you wouldn’t have found a donor. Can’t you be grateful?’

‘I’m grateful to nature and not the conformists,’ said Moritz. ‘I’m grateful for an experience that stopped me being as narrow-minded as you. I’ve got feelings, real feelings.’

Mia looked at him intently. Finally, she touched his shoulder. ‘What’s wrong with you? You seem so different. You sound very …’

‘Serious?’

‘By your standards, yes.’

‘I’m in training,’ said Moritz simply.

‘For a new you?’

‘For Sibylle.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Remember what you said just now?’

Suddenly he looked at her with an expression that made the argument implode, leaving fresh air, the smell of warm earth, and the river with a thousand luminous pennies drifting on its back.

‘I’m working on being in love,’ said Moritz. ‘Other people buy plastic roses, regulation perfume or chocolate-free chocolates but she wouldn’t like any of that. I’m going to give her a bouquet of words with the smell of freedom and the sweetness of revolution.’

‘Now you’re making fun of me.’

‘For once I’m not. Tonight I’m going to tell her everything that I’ve just told you, only she won’t wrinkle her brow and give me dusty answers: she’ll stare at me with her big silky eyes and understand every word. I’ve known her only three days and the things we’ve written to each other would get us three years in jail. Who cares, so long as we share a cell! She’s the one, Mia. I can feel it.’

‘What about deep-throating and doggy-style?’

‘Hopefully that as well,’ said Moritz, laughing. ‘Hey, I’ve got a bite!’

The rod twitched, he held on with both hands and pulled a fish out of the water, splashing and fighting on the end of the line.

‘You’ll like her, I know.’ Moritz leaned across and pressed a kiss to Mia’s forehead. Then he picked up a fallen branch and struck the fish on the head. ‘If Sibylle thinks the way she writes, she’s wackier than me. You’ll have two of us to argue with in future.’

‘FRAU HOLL! FRAU Holl! Are you with us? Shall I summon a doctor?’

Sophie’s dislike of anachronism extends to the use of her gavel. She strikes it three times against her desk, her rage increasing with every strike. The defendant, sitting to the left of the private counsel, looks up in confusion. She looks at the judge’s desk, peers at Barker for the prosecution, who is leaning back in his chair, eyebrows edging towards his temples. Finally she fixes her gaze on her own face, which is sitting majestically on her naked body like a religious painting at the top of a column and staring back at her from the screen. If Sophie has a problem with using her gavel, it is nothing compared to knowing that her character analysis was wrong. Mia’s soft mouth indicated a love of harmony, her bright eyes were a sign of mental clarity. And now Mia, the defendant, is staring into space. Yet again she has bitten the hand that feeds her. Sophie’s hand. This could be either the sign of a personality problem or an indication that she is depressed. Sophie can’t decide which is worse. Personality problems are a curse; the courthouse would be empty without them. Depression, however, is a corrosive force. People with depression reap the benefits of society’s generosity and goodwill, while making a religion of self-pity. Nothing could be further from their minds than overcoming their affliction. They are missionaries of unhappiness: a contagion. According to the Health Code, psychological illness is every bit as pernicious as its physical counterpart. And harder to prove.

‘I’m terribly sorry, Your Honour,’ says Mia.

Sophie hears Rosentreter whisper soothingly to his client. She almost feels sorry for him. He is an upright, unassuming man, not in the least equipped to deal with a recalcitrant character like Mia Holl.

‘What I have here is an appeal against the sentence I imposed,’ says Sophie, waving a sheet of paper in the air. ‘Signed by you.’

Mia looks uncertainly at Rosentreter, who pokes her gently in the ribs.

‘Yes, Your Honour,’ she says.

‘The penalty imposed for your infractions was extremely lenient.’ Hearing the hysteria in her voice, Sophie clears her throat and makes an effort to be professional. ‘It was an olive branch.’

‘Practically an acquittal,’ chimes in Barker.

‘Indeed.’ Sophie aims a mocking nod in Barker’s direction. ‘Frau Holl, the sentence was supposed to get you back on track. Is that clear?’

‘I suppose so, Your Honour,’ says Mia like a puppet whose jaw is worked by strings.

‘Enough!’ screeches Sophie, and this time she takes satisfaction in using her gavel. ‘I’m rejecting your appeal. And the penalty will be raised to fifty days’ wages. As for your abuse of toxic substances—’

‘But …’ says Mia, who has been listening to the judge’s pronouncements with increasing amazement, ‘but I am back on track. I submitted the missing data on sleep and nutrition to the relevant authorities. You’ve seen my medical and hygiene tests. The bacteria levels in my apartment are within the prescribed range. I’ll make up my exercise deficit within the next few days, and—’

‘I’m not falling for this again, Frau Holl. Perhaps you could explain why you’re appealing against a sentence that my superiors deemed unconscionably lax?’

‘Objection, Your Honour,’ says Rosentreter. ‘The defendant can’t be held responsible for the judge’s professional reputation.’