‘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.’
‘But—’ says Mia.
‘Objection upheld. I hereby terminate my examination of Frau Holl at the request of her lawyer. It brings the matter to a mercifully swift conclusion.’
‘Kind of you to do my job,’ says Barker.
‘No one asked you to comment,’ says Sophie sharply. Turning back to Rosentreter, she says, ‘The next infraction: abuse of toxic substances. Your plea?’
‘Guilty,’ says Rosentreter.
‘But I don’t see why …’ says Mia.
‘You smoked a cigarette, didn’t you?’ says Rosentreter softly. ‘You admitted to it last week.’
‘Of course,’ says Mia, ‘but I thought you said—’
‘You were adamant you wanted to deal with it yourself – I told you there was only one possible way of avoiding official intervention.’ The counsel for the defence looks
apologetically
at Sophie. ‘Frau Holl is appealing against the bringing of the charge. We refer Your Honour to the Health Code, Article 28. We’re seeking an exemption.’
‘An exemption!’ Barker slaps his hand against his desk in amusement. ‘Honestly, Rosentreter, couldn’t you talk her out of it?’
The colour has vanished from Sophie’s ruddy cheeks. Sophie doesn’t like herself when she loses her cool. Anger is an unhealthy emotion that runs counter to her natural disposition. Knowing this only adds to her fury.
‘The defendant is apparently of the opinion that her actions are beyond the jurisdiction of this court,’ she says coldly. ‘She also seems to think that the judge is incapable of assessing her personal situation, whereas the judge in question has bent over backwards on her account.’
Mia’s mouth is half open. Right now, the arrangement of her features says nothing about her need for harmony; she simply looks out of her depth. She also looks stupid – stupid in an obstinate way. She looks from one to the other like a dog that can’t quite remember which of them is her master. At last she gestures towards Rosentreter. ‘My lawyer told me …’
‘My client needs peace and quiet,’ says Rosentreter, picking a sheet of paper from his desk. ‘She wants time to reflect. She thinks the interference of the authorities will be detrimental to her recovery.’
‘Your Honour!’ Barker leans across his desk. ‘Surely it’s time for the defendant’s comments to be recorded in her file?’
‘Agreed.’ Sophie turns on her digital recorder and places
it
on the desk. ‘Herr Rosentreter, on what grounds is your client seeking exemption?’
As soon as Rosentreter starts speaking, his words flash up on the screen. ‘Frau Holl has been placed in an exceptional situation by the system: to wit, her brother was taken from her through the implementation of the Method. She would like to deal with the fallout from the aforementioned incident without the intervention of the Method and its associated institutions, hence the application for exemption in accordance with Article 28.’
‘Is this true?’ asks Sophie, leaning over her lectern. ‘Do you believe your brother died through the implementation of the Method?’
‘Causally speaking, yes,’ says Mia. ‘But it doesn’t mean I …’
‘It doesn’t mean you can cut yourself off from the Method and its public institutions – absolutely right, Frau Holl. Your lawyer will have explained that Article 28 was designed to rectify miscarriages of justice and not—’
‘Your Honour,’ cuts in Barker’s whiny voice, ‘the judge is under no obligation to remedy the failings of the defence.’
Sophie erupts. ‘I’ve had enough of your fault-finding,’ she bellows. ‘This isn’t a university canteen, where you can show off. Official caution in accordance with Article 12 – otherwise known as contempt of court.’
The gavel comes down hard on the desk. Sophie lays it aside in disgust.
‘The defendant’s application for exemption is rejected,’ she says, barely keeping her composure. ‘I won’t have my
courtroom
treated like a circus. The defendant is found guilty of abusing toxic substances and is sentenced to a two-year suspended term. I trust the penalty meets with the prosecution’s approval.’
‘In every respect,’ says Barker through gritted teeth.
‘Excellent. Incidentally, I’d like to remind Frau Holl that Method Defence is automatically informed of any attempt to apply for an exemption through recourse to Article 28. The court is now closed.’
‘THERE WAS A
line from a song in the good old days,’ says the ideal inamorata. ‘
Which side are you on?
You should adopt it as your anthem.’
It is probably somewhere approaching midday, maybe a little later, although at this point the hour is of little interest to those in the room. There is a springtime warmth to the day. The door to the roof garden is open, admitting balmy air. The self-satisfied buzzing of a bee can be heard from the flowerpots. Rosentreter watches from the doorway as the insect flits between the artificial petals, which exude a synthetic aroma known as ‘primrose’.
Is Mia’s lawyer in the apartment by invitation? Not really: Mia’s lawyer is in her apartment because he walked her home. They were on their way out of the courthouse when Mia stopped on the steps and stared at her surroundings, as if seeing the city with new eyes. And while she stared, she talked to herself: she had slowed down, she said, to a tenth of her usual speed, and that was the reason why the days were passing ten times faster, cyclists were going ten times faster, and people were talking at ten times their usual speed, so that she, Mia, could no longer make sense
of
anything. The brain, she said, was just a muscle, like any other. Rosentreter stepped in before she drew attention to herself by sitting on the stairs. He looked up her address in his file and walked her home.
Right now Mia is forcing down a couple of brightly coloured pills. Her eyes are closed. Modern medicine provides an answer to every existential problem; any remaining uncertainty can be clarified by only one man – Rosentreter. His lanky frame is slightly stooped, as if he were trying to make himself shorter. He runs his hand through his floppy hair for the hundredth time.
‘Happy now?’ asks Mia.
‘I’ve been admiring the view.’ Rosentreter scatters a few loose hairs and turns to face Mia.
‘I’m not interested in the view,’ she says. ‘I want to know if you
like
playing the torturer.’
‘Interesting you should mention torture. It may surprise you to learn that the introduction of torture was a milestone in the development of the modern criminal trial.’
‘Who does he take me for?’ says Mia to the ideal inamorata. ‘He’s as bad as the rest.’
‘I like him better than the other one,’ says the ideal inamorata. ‘There’s something about his eyes – like a small boy in a toyshop.’