Juli Zeh - The Method

‘Rosentreter!’ shouts Kramer.

‘—their DNA!’

The defence counsel raises an arm as if to banish Kramer to his seat with the power of the occult. The image on the screen changes. We see the face of an unknown man, approximately fifty years of age, head shaven and skin lined with deep wrinkles that make the photograph look like a drawing.

‘This,’ says Rosentreter, ‘is Walter Hannemann, the probable murderer of Sibylle Meiler. He was Moritz Holl’s donor.’

‘I knew it, Moritz!’ shouts Mia, looking up to the ceiling. ‘Please believe me, Moritz! I knew it all along!’

The situation breaks into its constituent parts. Barker leaves his desk, grabs Rosentreter by the sleeve and talks furiously at him without stopping. The security personnel, overwhelmed by the chaos, grab Mia by the shoulders, while Hutschneider yells frantically into his phone. The spectators leave the gallery, led by the journalists, shouting over each other in preparation for the briefing with Mia Holl. In the fields beyond the city, the turbine blades turn ponderously in the changing wind. In the midst of the tumult, Kramer is slumped on the bench, inspecting his cuticles and smoothing his already immaculate hair. Sophie, whose blonde hair is draped loose about her shoulders, makes no attempt to hide her face, even though tears are flowing down her cheeks. An alkaline salty solution, thinks Mia, watching attentively as Sophie continues to cry. A fluid secreted from our glands when the body is subjected to the shock of pain — physical or emotional. It also contains traces of mucin and protein, as we have learned elsewhere.

‘Sophie,’ says Mia, ‘it is not your fault.’

It is impossible to tell if the judge hears Mia above the noise. They will never see each other again.

DRISS HAS BOUNDED up the steps with giant strides and jammed her finger against the buzzer on Lizzie’s door. She doesn’t let go until someone opens. It isn’t Lizzie, it’s Pollie. She stands there, pale-faced, as if she has seen a ghost.

‘Quick, turn on the television!’ Driss is still speaking when she notices the noise. The television is on already, in every single room of Lizzie’s flat.

‘Stem cells,’ says Pollie. ‘Legal scandal. Can’t make head nor tail of it.’

‘Because you’re thick!’ shouts Lizzie from the kitchen. ‘The courts, the police … You can no longer count on anything.’

‘Look, there’s Mia!’ Driss is still standing in the doorway, apparently rooted to the spot. She points to the pictures on the screen. Mia’s face is about to vanish behind the microphones.

‘She didn’t do anything wrong, I knew it!’ Impatiently, Driss fends off Pollie, who is trying to pull her inside. ‘I was the only one who did!’

‘Frau Holl,’ says the voice of a reporter, ‘were you surprised by this morning’s revelations?’

‘He was my brother. I knew him.’

‘Frau Holl, how are you feeling right now?’

‘I’m ashamed of myself. I believed in his innocence, but maybe not strongly enough.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘I believed he was innocent, but I failed to draw any wider conclusions.’

‘Frau Holl, the Method is responsible for a gross miscarriage of justice. Is it still a legitimate system, in your view?’

‘I’m not going to answer that …’ says Mia.

‘Did you hear that, girls? She’s not going to answer!’ calls Lizzie across the hallway.

‘… but it’s a question I’ll ask myself every day.’

‘That’s our Mia!’ says Driss.

And here comes Mia in person. She is coming up the steps with Rosentreter. She is wearing normal clothes again, and she is staring at her feet.

‘Mia,’ says Driss as the pair reach the landing, ‘we’re so sorry.’

‘ She’s so sorry,’ says Pollie.

‘Don’t look at me!’ yells Mia. ‘You’ll get the plague! Tuberculosis, cholera, leukaemia!’

Pollie reaches out and yanks Driss into the apartment. The door slams shut.

‘This way,’ says Rosentreter. ‘Up the stairs.’

‘THAT,’ SAYS ROSENTRETER, ‘was what you might call a maximal triumph!’

Rosentreter cracks open a bottle of contraband champagne. He is celebrating a historic moment, the overture to a magnificent political oratorio, and whether or not he hears the oratorio, he wants to revel in the overture and savour the unforgettable beauty of its parts — the dull roll of the timpani, the heartbeat of a system on the verge of collapse; soaring trumpets, the media hitting previously unattainable notes; the soothing tones of the harp, political assurances and promises; and the frenetic playing of the string section, public opinion.

‘You know the best bit? The first violin is absolutely silent!’ Rosentreter laughs and slaps his thigh in delight. Then he fills two tumblers with champagne.

Mia is standing at the window and watching as the night sky works itself up for a summer storm above the city. She feels like a passenger who, after days of waiting on the platform and peering into the hazy distance, has finally seen the train arrive — from the other direction. The champagne poured for her by Rosentreter is gradually getting warmer in her hands.

The defence counsel’s glass is already half empty; the champagne lifts him like a magic carpet. Rosentreter is no more accustomed to alcohol than to courtroom success. He never shone as a student; his good grades testified to the fact that his professors liked him, not that he was suited to the law. He has waited half his life for this moment. Even so, Rosentreter has no intention of losing his head over this. Granted his picture is being beamed into every living room in the country, and he could step outside onto Mia’s roof garden and address the excited crowds. But Rosentreter is smart enough to know that Fortune tends to favour the strongest, which makes her an unreliable friend.

‘A good composer,’ he says, ‘follows the boldness of the overture with a peaceful first movement. We’ll lie low for a while. Plan the next move carefully. I like to work in the background, always have done. Santé!’

‘Santé,’ says the ideal inamorata, swigging from the bottle behind his back.

Mia hasn’t been listening to the overture; Mia is watching the storm. The street is lit on one side only, so the shadows of the trees lurch drunkenly across the apartments in the opposite block. They seem to clutch at each other’s hands as they stumble along. The wind gusts through every aperture in the building, riding on open doors and riffling through documents on desks. It rattles the blinds like castanets, fills the swings and see-saws with invisible children bobbing crazily up and down, and applauds itself with a sheet of tarpaulin on some scaffolding. On the rooftops, everything is banging and clattering as if a group of gods were playing skittles up above. Where are the people? The storm has driven them inside where they lie in their bedrooms, trying to sleep like animals in crates, doing their best to ignore the rumbling and roaring of nature, tortured by their awareness of the insignificance of their tiny, puffed-up lives in the pas de deux between the city and the sky. Human beings aren’t part of the game; they aren’t even spectators. At most they’re dead leaves, swept aside and abandoned in the gutter.

‘No interviews,’ stipulates Rosentreter. ‘No TV appearances. Keep yourself out of the public eye. That’s why there are delivery companies, couriers and telecommunications. Stay indoors! Mia, are you listening to me?’

He reaches in vain for the champagne bottle, which the ideal inamorata has moved to the left.