In Mia’s fingers is a clear plastic cord, which she feeds through a hole in the Plexiglas. With small movements of his thumb and index finger, Moritz pulls it through the screen. It takes time. The guard inspects his fingernails and yawns. When the cord has passed through the hole, Mia and Moritz stand up.
‘Life,’ says Moritz softly, ‘is an offer you can also refuse.’
They imagine hugging each other, standing a tiny distance apart so their chests don’t quite touch.
‘So long,’ says Mia.
A Special Gift for Pain
IT ISN’T THAT she didn’t try. She cleared the shelves and surfaces of dirty dishes and empty glasses and stacked them on her desk. She laid out the kit for her blood test and placed the beaker for her urine sample on the toilet cistern, where it remained, unused. She vacuumed a corner of the carpet and threw the vacuum cleaner on the floor. Rather than clean the windows, as she intended, she dabbed star-like constellations of dots on the steamed-up glass. Afterwards, she pressed on the dots with two fingers and smiled when actually she wanted to scream, smash things, or just cry. Now the apartment is messier than before and Mia is lying on the sofa in the arms of the ideal inamorata. Her eyes are closed as if she were asleep.
‘I don’t recognise my apartment any more,’ says Mia. ‘It looks strange, like a word repeated and repeated until it’s just a series of sounds. Time seems strange to me, the passing of days. I don’t recognise my life any more; it’s just a set of actions. No meaning, no purpose.’
‘This Kramer is a fanatic,’ says the ideal inamorata, cradling Mia like a child.
‘I’m a woman with a penthouse apartment overlooking the city and a special gift for pain. I haven’t been outside in four weeks. That’s the sum of my life. If I turn my gaze inwards, if I listen for signs of activity, a rustling, a whispering, the slightest stirring of a personality, I find nothing. I’m a word that’s lost its meaning because it’s been repeated to death.’
‘He gets a kick out of absolute obedience,’ says the ideal inamorata. ‘Unquestioning sacrifice to the principle, that’s what he wants.’
‘He talked a lot of sense.’
‘He’s a clever fanatic.’ The ideal inamorata lifts her arms above her head and holds her wrists together, shaking her hands in the air as if to recall a bathing bird. This is how the ideal inamorata laughs.
Tin of Beans
SHE WAS BROUGHT in by two guards in grey uniforms, who apologised politely for the inconvenience and closed the door gently on their way out.
Now Mia, naked from the waist up, is in the examination chair. Her eyes are empty and expressionless. Wires run from her wrists, back and temples. The beating of her heart, the rush of blood through her body, the electrical impulses running through her synapses are clearly audible — an orchestra of demented musicians tuning their instruments. The civic doctor is a good-natured man with manicured fingernails. He passes a sensor over Mia’s upper arm as if he were scanning a tin of beans at the checkout. Her picture appears on the wall, accompanied by a long list of medical stats.
‘What did I tell you, Frau Holl? You’re in perfect working order. Tiptop condition, as I like to say.’
Mia looks up at him.
‘You thought I was ill? That I was holding back my data because I had something to hide … Do I look like a criminal?’
The doctor is already removing the wires.
‘It wouldn’t be the first time, Frau Holl. True, but sad, as I like to say.’
Mia pulls her jumper quickly over her head.
‘You have a nice day, Frau Holl,’ the doctor calls after her.
An Ordinary Juicer
SOPHIE’S STUDENT PONYTAIL bounces merrily back and forth as she scans the medical data on her desk. For no particular reason, she is in a good mood. For Sophie, good moods are a habit, just as people of more nervous dispositions are inclined to bite their nails. Sophie studied law because she loves it, and her love of law became a profession, a career that allows her to do something worthwhile. People thank her for it. Most people thank her for it. And Mia Holl, Sophie can tell at a glance, is definitely one of those people. As soon as Mia walked into the room, her bright eyes and intelligent face struck Sophie. Mia’s nose is possibly too large for her face. Large noses are a sign of obstinacy, which in this case is balanced out by a soft mouth, pleading silently for harmony. Sophie is an excellent judge of character, she thinks.
‘Very good,’ she says, closing the medical dossier and pushing it aside. ‘Excellent, in fact.’
Sophie is touched by the way the respondent is chewing her lower lip. Mia Holl, though several years older than Sophie, has the air of a helpless child.
‘I’m delighted you’re here, Frau Holl, although I wish you hadn’t declined our offer of mediation. This is an official civil hearing and I must remind you of your rights. According to Article 50 of the Health Code, you have the right to remain silent — although I’m sure you’d rather talk to me. Isn’t that right, Frau Holl?’
On occasions, Sophie can look like a child as well, a child who wants everyone to kiss and make up. Faced with this look, defendants have no choice but to nod.
Mia nods.
‘Good,’ says Sophie, smiling. ‘Then tell us, Frau Holl, what do you understand by the concept of health?’
‘Humans,’ says Mia, apparently to her fingers, ‘are surprisingly badly constructed. An ordinary juicer, for example, can be dismantled and taken apart. Unlike the components of a human, a juicer’s parts can be cleaned, repaired and put back together.’
‘In that case, you’ll understand why our prophylactic measures for public health are designed for humans, not juicers.’
‘Yes, Your Honour.’
‘So why is it you’ve been exempting yourself from mandatory testing? You haven’t returned a single sample in weeks.’
‘I’m sorry,’ says Mia. ‘I guess.’
‘You guess?’ Sophie leans back and flips her ponytail into place. ‘Frau Holl, I don’t suppose you remember me, but I remember you very well. I was the rapporteur in the case against … uh, in the trial of Moritz Holl. The details of the affair are known to me. I understand what you’re going through.’
Several seconds pass as Mia stares fixedly into the judge’s eyes, then she lowers her gaze.
‘We can’t change what happened,’ says Sophie, ‘but the Health Code offers a number of solutions for people in your situation. I could appoint a medical counsellor to help you — or order a stay at a health farm, if you prefer. We could choose a nice spot in the mountains or by the sea. You’ll have all the support you need to come to terms with your situation. When it comes to your reintegration into normal—’
‘No, thank you.’
‘What do you mean — no, thank you?’
Mia says nothing.
Sophie is mistaken in thinking that the respondent can’t remember her. Mia’s memory shows Sophie as a giant black-robed mannequin at the back of a ghost train, sheltered from the wind by the mannequins in front. Seated behind the presiding judge, the associate judges and the clerks, Sophie is barely visible: pretty, young, her blonde hair in a ponytail, the ultimate phantasm of horror, looking down with her big eyes and solicitous expression at the defendant, his body shrunken from its former size, a gaunt figure cowering in front of the black-robed brigade. The blonde girl’s all right, Moritz had said. She doesn’t mean any harm. Probably none of them do. How would you decide the case, you with your principles, if you were sitting up there and I weren’t your brother?