‘This man,’ says Mia loudly, pointing at Rosentreter, ‘sabotaged my case.’
‘I know the business with torture sounds absurd,’ says Rosentreter, raising a hand to his chin as if he were giving a seminar on legal history, ‘but it’s absolutely true. It followed the abolition of trial by ordeal –
judicium
Dei
. Thereafter man, not God, was supposed to sit in judgement over humankind. But how could ordinary humans without divine knowledge be relied upon to divine the truth? Confession was the only reliable indicator of guilt. Sadly, defendants couldn’t be counted upon to confess, so the system came up with a means of …’ Rosentreter smiles to himself ‘… probing their conscience.’
‘If you don’t mind,’ says Mia, ‘I’d like to get back to the workings of
my
case. That’s enough of a torture for me.’
‘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!’
‘According to the Method, inadmissible love is a capital offence. If we were to express our love physically, we’d be punished in the same way as people who spread disease.’
‘You think you’ve got a problem? You don’t know the first thing about suffering, Rosentreter. You think you can change a situation that’s been going on for hundreds of years?
You
, of all people!’
‘It’s a ridiculous situation!’
‘It’s more ridiculous to think you can fight it. You’re an arrogant fool, Rosentreter. Indulge your illicit passion, but do it discreetly – like everyone else! No one wants to hear about it. The world isn’t interested in your personal affairs.’
‘Frau Holl, if you don’t mind, I’m going to step outside the lawyer–client relationship for a moment. I’m Lutz, by the way.’
Mia looks at him doubtfully. At last she extends a hand. ‘Mia,’ she says.
‘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.
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.