Juli Zeh - The Method

‘The use of torture was a casualty of humanism,’ says Rosentreter, unabashed. ‘It left us with a problem, though. We’re still not really comfortable with punishing people who protest their innocence to the last.’

‘We don’t know each other,’ says Mia, taking a step towards him. ‘I have no idea who you are. Or whose cause you’re hoping to serve by putting on this pantomime.’

‘I’m the counsel for the defence, and you’re the defendant. If we follow the rules of semantics, that makes me the counsel for your defence.’

‘You promised to get me out of this mess,’ says Mia. She jabs her finger at him in a prosecutorial fashion. ‘And now, thanks to you, I’m in an even bigger hole. Perhaps you can offer me some advice, Herr Rosentreter. Can I sue you for what you’ve done?’

‘Of course. If you’re clever about it, you could have me disbarred for this morning’s performance.’

‘Marvellous,’ says Mia sarcastically. ‘In that case, I instruct you to sue yourself.’

‘You may wish to consider where your interests lie — and how you intend to defend them.’

‘Exactly what I’ve been saying,’ exclaims the ideal inamorata. ‘Which side are you on?’

‘Your brother was charged with sexually motivated homicide and sentenced to indefinite vita minima . Do you think he did it?’

‘I’m not prepared to discuss it with you.’

‘You think he was innocent, don’t you?’ Rosentreter closes the patio door. ‘You think he was innocent because you knew him. Him , in other words: his soul, his heart, his spirit. None of which play any role in human interaction, according to the Method.’

Mia clutches her head, a battleground between her ragged nerves and the numbing effect of the pills. ‘Why does everyone on the planet see me as their political confessor?’

‘Because,’ the ideal inamorata says simply, ‘your time has come.’ She flings out her arms dramatically, just as Moritz would have done. ‘Warning, you are entering the real world. Small pieces represent a choking hazard.’

‘I wish you’d shut up,’ snaps Mia.

‘Good,’ says Rosentreter, satisfied. ‘It’s OK to get angry. After what happened this morning, we’re closer than you think.’

‘And what did happen exactly?’

‘It was a playground scrap.’ Rosentreter holds up his hands. ‘Small children throwing sand in each other’s eyes. It’s time to throw down the gauntlet to the professionals. We’re taking this further.’

‘ We ?’ exclaims Mia.

‘What are you trying to say?’

‘I’m giving up. Or rather: I gave up long ago. Let me say again: no! I can’t give up because there isn’t and never has been anything I want to achieve.’

‘You can’t give up; that’s precisely the problem, Frau Holl. Don’t you understand what they were threatening you with this morning? Method Defence. They want you branded as a security threat.’

‘That is entirely your fault.’

‘We’re not going to let them get away with it!’ Rosentreter is waving his hands excitedly. ‘What sort of a system kills a man and withholds the right for his sister to grieve on her own?’

‘Are you speaking as a lawyer?’

‘As a human being, Frau Holl.’

‘Grow up, Rosentreter. Looking for the human condition is like knocking at a door when you know no one’s home. You wait for a bit, peer inside and call out: Is anyone there? Then you go.’

‘The Method killed the human and left a mask in his place,’ says the ideal inamorata. ‘You’re an exception, dear heart. You’re human and I love you for it.’

‘It’s all right for you,’ says Mia. ‘You do nothing but lounge around all day, safe in the knowledge that you don’t have a blood group! No one wants to collect your data or monitor your exercise! You don’t even have an immune system.’

‘Frau Holl,’ Rosentreter says soothingly, ‘stop talking to your shoes. Look at me , talk to me . The Method is committed to serving humanity — Article 1 of the Code. At the next hearing, the court is going to reflect on some matters of principle.’

‘Your eyes,’ says Mia.

‘What about them?’ Rosentreter raises a hand to his face.

‘They’re shining.’

‘It’s the sunlight.’

‘This isn’t a defence.’ She glares at him. ‘This is a crusade.’

‘Maybe a crusade is what’s necessary.’

‘For whom?’ she demands.

‘For everyone.’

‘I’m going to ask you again,’ says Mia sharply. ‘Who are you? A lunatic? A PRI activist with black robes and a briefcase? Or just a little sadist who thinks it’s funny to jump up and down on the wreckage of my life?’

Rosentreter clears his throat. ‘I’m unhappy,’ he says.

‘Get him to explain,’ says the ideal inamorata.

‘You’d better explain,’ says Mia.

‘I’d rather not,’ says Rosentreter.

‘You can turn my life into a combat zone,’ says Mia, starting to shout. ‘You can cart me to the coliseum on the back of your legal strategies and unleash me on the opposition like an untamed beast. But I’ve got a right to know why.’

‘OK,’ says the lawyer, and he sits down next to the ideal inamorata on the couch.

MIA SITS DOWN at her desk and holds her head in her hands, as if her neck were no longer able to take the strain. There is silence for a few moments. Halfway round the world, the Amazon is emptying into the Atlantic at a rate of two hundred million litres per second. You can practically feel it in Mia’s living room. Rosentreter is biting his nails, although nail biting is prohibited because of the dangers of infection.

‘We don’t see each other very often,’ he says at last. ‘We’re in a long-distance relationship, but without the relationship. Distance is all we have. It’s like playing battleships inside our heads without a pen or paper.’

‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this,’ says Mia.

‘Who would?’ says Rosentreter sympathetically. ‘After all, individuals with non-complementary immune systems can’t fall in love — it’s scientifically proven. I’m MHC class 1, B11, which makes me a match for A2, A4 and A6. Then along comes the love of my life, a woman like cold water on burnt skin. Major histocompatibility complex B13. We didn’t even apply for an exemption: we wouldn’t have stood a chance.’

‘I can’t believe it,’ says Mia again. ‘You’re up in arms about a trivial MHC discrepancy, is that it?’

‘It’s not trivial,’ says the ideal inamorata.

‘Your love is inadmissible!’ says Mia, raising her voice. ‘Is that the extent of your personal tragedy, the motivation for your crusade?’

‘If you want to put it like that: yes.’

‘A temporary misalignment of the individual’s wishes with the common will,’ says the ideal inamorata. ‘That’s what Kramer would call it.’

‘When are you going to wake up?’ says Mia, her voice still raised. ‘In the olden days, a princess would marry the king and share a bed with the privy counsellor; it’s been happening for centuries!’

‘You don’t understand,’ says Rosentreter. ‘This isn’t about sex; I love this woman! I want us to be together; I don’t want to hide our relationship. I want children.’

‘It’s the same old story! The peasant girl and the lord of the manor, the nun and the gardener, brothers and sisters, the schoolgirl and her teacher, the grown man and his best friend: they all loved each other. And these days thousands of people love the wrong immune system. Everyone wants to be happy, and sometimes the rules won’t allow it. It’s the same as it ever was. It’s normal, Rosentreter, normal!’