The Method Read Online Free PDF Page B

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?
    ‘Frau Holl,’ says Sophie, crinkling her cute little nose, ‘in organic terms, you are perfectly healthy, but your soul is distressed. Would you agree with this assessment?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Then why refuse our help?’
    ‘My pain is a personal matter.’
    ‘A personal matter?’ echoes Sophie, surprised.
    ‘It’s like this.’ Mia reaches suddenly for the judge’s hand, a clear violation of courtroom procedure. Sophie sits up with a start and glances about, before allowing the defendant to grip her fingers.
    ‘No one,’ says Mia, ‘no one understands what I’m going through, not even me. If I were a dog, I’d growl at myself to keep me at bay.’

Not Made to Be Understood
     
    MIA’S VOICE IS barely a whisper because she realises that statements about growling dogs aren’t made to be understood. What she wants to say isn’t easy to put into words, and in the presence of a judge, it’s probably good that she isn’t inclined to try. If we were to find the words for her, we would have to imagine that it is night. Mia fights to free herself from her duvet and gets out of bed. Outside, the first rays of light are beginning to water down the thick nocturnal blackness of the sky. This is the time when yesterday becomes tomorrow and for the briefest of moments there is no today: this is the time that the sleepless dread. Mia is stuck in her skin. It traps her like a fishing net. Her face is too small: she runs her fingertips over an unfamiliar arrangement of features, her mouth in an ugly half-grin with only one side turned up – it isn’t her smile.
    She leaves the bedroom and her shoulder grazes the door frame. We see her cross the corridor and enter the lounge, pick up a remote control and turn on the stereo, racking up the volume. We don’t hear her scream; we see her wide-open mouth and the way she stumbles, and we think she is going to fall. But Mia keeps going and reaches the window, her raised hands thudding against the pane. Knocked back, she takes another run-up and slams both palms against the window. Because of the music, we don’t hear the noise of breaking glass. Carried by her momentum, Mia’s arms pass through the shattering pane, and she snatches at nothing, tipping forward, then catching her balance