‘Seven units of protein,’ says the ideal inamorata, who is lying on the couch. She rummages through Mia’s shopping bags. ‘Ten units of carbohydrate. Three of fruit and veg. Exemplary. We’re on the road to recovery, are we?’
‘When I’m done with this,’ puffs Mia, ‘I’ll clean and tidy the apartment. You’ll see. In a few days, I’ll be back to work as normal.’
‘Good intentions are peculiar things,’ says the ideal inamorata. ‘A powerful expression of their own irrelevance.’
‘I’d appreciate a little more optimism. “Law is a game, and everyone plays a part.” It sounds like Moritz, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Moritz wanted to be in charge of his own game.’
‘You might be right.’ Mia wipes the sweat from her forehead with her sleeve. ‘In any case, he’ll have to resign himself to having his lines rescripted by the rest of us. He’s the one who decided not to play.’
‘I’d like to propose a different metaphor,’ says the ideal inamorata, picking up a protein tube and pretending to quote from the packaging. ‘A single cognitive error contains the recommended daily amount of self-delusion for a typical healthy adult.’ She lifts her head and looks at Mia. ‘Want to know the truth? This isn’t a game.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Come on, Mia, you’re not going to fill the yawning crack inside you with Rosentreter and some exercise. The damage runs deeper, Mia. It isn’t about you personally; it runs through this country, and it started with the decision that individual pathologies are a luxury we can’t afford. You’re being eaten away on the inside by the rot at the heart of the system.’
‘You represent Moritz, and I respect that,’ says Mia. ‘You want to keep alive his memory; that’s your job. But don’t presume to know what I’m like on the inside. Even Moritz didn’t understand me. He thought I was weak and conformist.’
‘And the truth is …?’
‘I’m smart enough to know that fighting the system is narcissistic.’
‘The human condition is a pitch-black room in which you crawl around like newborn babies under constant supervision in case you bump heads. Is that what you mean?’
‘Pretty much. Where did you get that? It sounds familiar.’
‘From your new friend, Heinrich Kramer.’
‘Maybe we were wrong about him,’ says Mia. ‘He’s a media personality; he might be entirely different underneath.’
‘Appearance versus reality? Not that old chestnut! The person who appears to be Kramer, the person responsible for condemning an innocent man, is only a cover for the real Kramer, who doesn’t agree with any of Kramer’s views! Or do you think it was all an unfortunate mistake?’
‘What’s your problem?’ Mia, who has been pedalling furiously, comes to a sudden stop. ‘I don’t want to argue.’
‘What they did to Moritz was either right, or it was wrong,’ the ideal inamorata says sharply. ‘There’s no middle ground. It’s up to you to make a decision. Now come on, Mia, darling. Come over here.’
‘But I haven’t finished.’
‘I said come here!’
Mia wavers for a moment, then slides from her exercise bike and walks to the couch. The ideal inamorata knocks the shopping to the floor with a sweep of her arm and flicks on the TV.
People’s Right to Illness
‘WE SHOULD TAKE a moment to consider what it stands for: PRI or People’s Right to Illness, that is, a radical affront to healthy thought.’
The presenter, Wörmer, is half Kramer’s age and half as famous. We can tell this from looking at him. Next to Kramer, he looks like the nervous young editor of a school magazine. He has dedicated his career to following in the footsteps of tonight’s guest. Wörmer is the host of his own talk show, What We All Think. He asked Kramer to appear as his guest, and Kramer agreed. This is the crowning moment of Wörmer’s life so far.
‘You’re an expert on anti-Method activities,’ says Wörmer. ‘How does it feel to be up against people who are obviously intellectually impaired? Do you worry for your sanity?
‘Absolutely not,’ says Kramer, his left arm dangling casually over the side of his chair. His right hand holds a glass, which he twists from side to side, sometimes looking into the water as if it were a crystal ball. ‘The members of the PRI are in no sense intellectually impaired. We’re not talking about outsiders, dropouts or the underprivileged. They’re normal people and by no means unintelligent. The PRI isn’t a form of organised crime; it’s a network. The opponents of the Method work together in loose association. Structurally, it adds to the threat — a movement governed by coincidence and chaos is very difficult to combat.’
‘Fascinating,’ says Wörmer. ‘It makes you wonder how a well-balanced system could give rise to such irrationalism — a twentieth-century throwback, I suppose … Well, what else can you tell us about these people, Herr Kramer?’
‘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.’