The Method Page 6

  ‘You’re not far off with your reference to the twentieth century.’ Kramer takes a sip of water and nods at a pretty production assistant, who rushes over to refill his glass.

  ‘Turn it off,’ says Mia. ‘It’s the same old PRI hysteria.’

  ‘We’re not interested in hysteria,’ says the ideal inamorata. ‘We’re interested in your new friend.’

  ‘The opponents of the Method,’ Mia’s friend is saying, ‘are characterised by a reactionary belief in individual freedom dating back to the twentieth century. The PRI’s ideas are grounded in a flawed interpretation of the Enlightenment.’

  ‘But isn’t the Method the logical successor to the Enlightenment?’

  ‘Hence the complexity of the situation. Incredible as it sounds, the PRI includes many former adherents of the Method.’

  ‘People in the midst of our society?’

  ‘Precisely.’ Kramer looks straight into the camera and his gaze seems to settle on Mia’s face. ‘People like you and me. Freedom isn’t freedom from responsibility, they understand that, but their mistake is to believe that a cancer patient watching himself die by degrees is somehow free. We’re talking about a person incapable of leaving his bed.’

  ‘Isn’t that incredibly cynical?’ asks Wörmer, holding up his hands in horror.

  ‘You have to be a cynic to oppose the Method. But there’s an important point I’d like to make here: these people aren’t malicious; they’re ignorant. The unassailable right to health enshrined by the Method is one of humanity’s greatest achievements. For example, a woman born thirty-four years ago would have no recollection of physical pain. How can she possibly imagine the grim reality behind the death statistics for 2012? Illness, as far as she is concerned, is a historical phenomenon.’

  ‘I was born thirty-four years ago,’ remarks Mia.

  ‘Really?’ says the ideal inamorata in mock surprise.

  ‘I see what you’re saying,’ says the presenter. He starts to nod and shows no sign of stopping. ‘The very success of the Method, its absolute efficacy, leads people to lose sight of its purpose.’

  ‘Let us suppose for a moment that our thirty-four-year-old woman finds herself in a difficult emotional situation. Her personal needs no longer seem compatible with the demands of the Method. Now, each of us is selfish at heart, and it is only to be expected that in certain situations our personal wishes will be at odds with the common will. However, an intelligent person, precisely because of her intelligence, will be reluctant to admit the truth, namely, that her dilemma is an entirely banal and unexceptional conflict of interests, the solution to which is equally banal and unexceptional, consisting, as it invariably does, in admitting an error of logic. Such a person will be inclined to elevate her personal dilemma to a question of fundamental principles; rather than finding fault with herself, she finds fault with the system.’

  ‘That’s what I always said to Moritz,’ says Mia weakly.

  ‘Another reason for not turning it off,’ says the ideal inamorata, clutching the remote control with both hands. ‘Mia, you need to ask yourself: which side you are on?’

  ‘What do you want to hear? We both know Kramer is a rabble-rouser! But he isn’t the devil: the devil lies in the detail, in a fiendish detail. Kramer is every bit as right – and every bit as wrong – as his opponents.’

  ‘Shush,’ says the ideal inamorata.

  ‘So, coming back to the example of the intelligent young woman who starts to doubt the system,’ says Wörmer. ‘I suppose it’s a slippery slope …?’

  ‘It’s a vicious circle,’ says Kramer. ‘Every real or imagined step taken against the Method engenders a reaction that appears to confirm her doubts. It’s a very human situation: in the blink of an eye, you can find yourself outside the norm. The correlation between public and private interest has been the focus of comprehensive studies—’

  ‘Including this one,’ says the presenter, waving a book at the camera: Health as the Principle of State Legitimacy by Heinrich Kramer, Berlin/Munich/Stuttgart, 25th edition. He puts it down when his guest becomes impatient. The author is entitled to be modest in the light of his success.

  ‘According to the Method,’ continues Kramer, ‘normality refers to the perfect alignment of public and private good. A person who rejects this definition of normal will be seen by society to fall outside the norm. Life outside the norm is lonely, as you might imagine. Soon after converting to the cause of anti-normalism, our sample woman will feel the need to forge alliances. Her new companions will be drawn from the enemies of the Method.’

  ‘Only a truly great mind can break down complex issues into good hard facts,’ says Wörmer, his admiration for Kramer practically lifting him out of his seat. ‘One last question, if I may. With the chronological gap to the pre-Method era widening, should we reckon with an upsurge in anti-Method agitation?’

  ‘Undoubtedly; but we’re expecting it, and we’re prepared. Any intelligent person will understand the scale of the threat. It’s important to remind ourselves of the historical conditions that gave rise to the Method.’ Kramer jerks a thumb towards the past, which he seems to think lies somewhere behind his chair. He nods his head solemnly as he prepares to confront us with some uncomfortable truths.

  ‘The second Enlightenment came about in the wake of twentieth-century violence and led to the almost total de-ideologisation of society. Notions such as nationhood, religion and family lost their meaning. The era of dismantling had begun. Later, those caught up in the process were surprised to find that the prevailing sentiment at the turn of the millennium was far from triumphant; people felt less, not more civilised: isolated and directionless, closer to the state of nature. Soon everyone was discussing the decline in moral values. Society had lost confidence in itself, and people reverted to fearing each other. Fear was at the heart of people’s lives and the core of state politics. The period of dismantling was over, but no one had prepared for rebuilding. The consequences were dire: plummeting birth rates, an increase in stress-related illness, outbreaks of violence and terrorism. Not to mention the privileging of personal interest, the erosion of loyalty and the eventual collapse of the entire social edifice. Chaos, illness and general uncertainty.’

  A dark memory flits across Kramer’s face, although he knows the story only from his parents.

  ‘The Method got to grips with the problem and provided a solution. It therefore follows that opposing the Method is a retrograde step. These people are reactionaries, intent on returning society to a state of chaos. They’re not waging a campaign against an idea; they’re attacking the well-being and safety of every single member of our society. Every attack on the Method is an act of war, and the supporters of the Method are prepared to fight back.’

  While the studio audience bursts into enthusiastic applause, the presenter and his guest leave their seats and Mia finally seizes the remote control and hits the off button.

  ‘Well,’ says the ideal inamorata. ‘Do you see what’s going on now?’

  Mia looks at her questioningly.

  ‘Your new friend meant you.’

  The End of the Fish

  THEY OFTEN ARGUED, but that day – the day, as Mia later realised, when things started to go wrong – they had a full-blown fight. Every week they would set out for a walk, and every week they would stop at the edge of the exclusion zone and go through their usual ritual. Moritz would stop in front of the sign at the end of the path, stretch out his arms and read the printed warning:

  You are leaving the Controlled Area. This Area has been sterilised in accordance with Article 17 on Public Cleanliness. Anyone who passes beyond this point will be in breach of Article 18 on Infection Containment and will be penalised accordingly.

  Then he would add, ‘Failure to leave the Controlled Area is evidence of wilful stupidity: your body will be turned to stone and your mind to mush. What are you waiting for, Mia Holl?’

  Mia would run away, and he would catch her, still struggling
energetically, and lift her off the ground. Carrying Mia, he would charge into the woods, hurtling towards what he called freedom and what was otherwise known as a hygiene risk.

  Moritz saw his exercise obligations as a drag. He liked to exercise, but he didn’t want his ID chip in his arm communicating with the sensors on the road. Moritz wanted to walk in the woods without accumulating credits. He wanted to go fishing, light a fire and eat his catch. He preferred the taste of his scaly, slightly burnt and amateurishly filleted fish to any protein tube in the supermarket. When they went to the river, Mia would gather some nettles and offer them to her brother as a salad. She would watch as he chomped his way through his unappetising snack. And she would think, though she never said so, that Moritz, although quite probably a little unhinged, was someone you couldn’t resist.

  That day too Moritz dangled his improvised fishing line into the water, chewed ostentatiously on a blade of grass, and allowed the river, a torrent of possible infections, to wash around his feet. It was warm outside, and Mia found herself leaning back on her elbows and gazing at the sky. Despite the elevated risk of skin cancer, she angled her face towards the sun. The cathedral was decked out with light, and Mia tried not to listen as Moritz filled her in on his blind date with Kristine and her proficiency at what he referred to as ‘doggy-style’. When he finally finished, she launched into a short lecture on the purpose and merits of the Central Partnership Agency. She called her brother a reckless pleasure-seeker, an egotist who was fundamentally incapable of loving a woman.

  Was her tone a little harsh? Did she go beyond the usual teasing? Sometimes Mia would feel a stab of jealousy when Moritz talked about his dates. On such occasions her tone would be harsher than she intended, though not sufficiently harsh to justify Moritz reacting as he did. The woods were chirping happily and life was good, as good as it always was when the two of them were together. But Moritz was incensed.

  ‘You make me sick,’ he said angrily. ‘You of all people, accusing me of being incapable of love! The fact is, I’m human and you’re not.’

  He spoke more urgently, more intensely than usual. He had fire in his eyes and he intoned his words with the passion of a poet.

  ‘Unlike an animal, I can rise above the compulsions of nature. I can have sex without wanting to reproduce. I can decide to take substances that unchain me from my body and allow me, temporarily, to be free. I can disregard my survival instincts and place myself in danger, for nothing more than the challenge and the thrill. To be human, it isn’t enough to exist, if to exist means simply being here in this world. Man must experience his existence. Through pain. Through intoxication. Through failure. By soaring as high as you can. By apprehending the full extent of your power over your own existence – over life, over death. That, my poor, withered sister, is love.’

  They’d had this debate more often than they could remember, but never like this. This time the truth was out there on the surface, leaving the core of things empty. Or, to put it another way, it was a matter of packaging. Moritz had stepped outside the carefully balanced game of derision they’d been perfecting since childhood. He’d hurt Mia’s feelings, and she didn’t intend to back down.

  ‘My poor misguided brother … Don’t you realise what a hypocrite you are? Apprehending the full extent of your power … It won’t mean a thing when your heart goes on strike! It’s all very well to talk about freedom when you’re enjoying the benefits of a risk-free society. While you’re making combative speeches, the rest of us are picking up the tab. You’re not free; you’re hypocritical and gutless!’

  ‘A risk-free society!’ Moritz laughed. ‘Tell me you didn’t say that! Even you should know better than to parrot the slogans of those conformists. Life won’t be risk-free until we’re suspended in liquid growth medium and forbidden from touching each other. What’s the point of being safe if we vegetate for the rest of our lives to satisfy someone’s warped idea of the norm? If we have just one idea that isn’t about our safety, if our minds rise above our physical needs and contemplate something bigger than ourselves, then at least we’re living a life of dignity, which in the higher sense is the only normal one. You know the worst part, Mia? You’re clever enough to understand what I’m saying.’

  ‘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.’

  The Gavel

  ‘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.