The Method Read Free Page A

That’s what he meant by love.’
    Mia turns back to her desk and continues to talk while noting things down.
    ‘I need to write it down. I need to write
him
down. Ninety-six per cent of information is deleted from our memories after only a couple of days. Four per cent isn’t enough for Moritz. If all I have is four per cent of Moritz, I can’t carry on.’
    She writes furiously for a moment, then she lifts her head.
    ‘When we talked about love, he used to be very rude. You’re a scientist, he would say. He accused me of putting everyone – friends and enemies – under an electron microscope. Tell me, Mia, when you say the word
love
, does the word feel foreign in your mouth? Because your voice sounds different when you say it. You’re half an octave higher. Your larynx is constricting and your voice sounds shrill.
Love
. When you were little, you practised saying it in front of the mirror.
Love
. You used to look yourself in the eye and ask yourself why it took such an effort to say.
Love
. The fact is, Mia, you can’t pronounce it properly. For you, it belongs to a foreign language, you have to contort your tongue. Go on, Mia, say I
love
you. Say,
love
is more important than anything. Say, my
love
, my
beloved
. Do you
love
me? – Mia, you’re giving up already! Don’t walk away!’
    She swivels round in her chair, this time impatiently.
    ‘What were his last words? “Life is an offer you can also refuse.” Where’s the love in that? Sometimes a sentence cuts into the mind like a machine press, changing the template of your thoughts. How am I supposed to forget? How am I supposed to remember? You knew him, probably better than I did. I have no idea if he knew how much I loved him! I don’t even know if I miss him enough!’
    ‘That’s rubbish,’ says the ideal inamorata. ‘We’re missing him right now; day and night, all we do is miss him. We miss him together. Now come here!’
    Mia gets up and walks towards the outstretched arms of the ideal inamorata. Just then, the doorbell rings.

A Nice Gesture
     
    THERE ARE MOMENTS when time seems to stop. Two human beings look into each other’s eyes: matter staring at itself. For a few seconds the whole world seems to spin around the axis of their gaze, which passes through both skulls, extending to infinity. To avoid any possible confusion, let it be noted: we are not talking about love at first sight here. If we were to describe what is currently occurring between Mia and Kramer, we might compare it to the silent roar of a story about to unfold.
    Mia has opened the door, and for a moment no one says a word. It is hard to guess what Kramer is thinking; possibly he is waiting for Mia to remember her manners and invite him inside. He is a patient man. In all likelihood, he is trying not to rush her, waiting respectfully in the doorway to give her time because he understands her present situation is unusual. She is face to face with the person whom she has killed in her imagination in multiple and agonising ways. It isn’t the sort of thing that happens all the time.
    ‘How odd,’ says Mia when she finally finds her voice. ‘The television isn’t on and I can still see you quite clearly.’
    Kramer responds with a charming, open-hearted smile, a smile that no one who knows his media personality would ever believe was his. It is a private smile. A smile that says, despite his celebrity, he is still the same person at heart.
    ‘Santé,’ he says, removing his right glove and offering Mia his bare hand. She considers it closely, as if examining an exotic insect, then places her fingers in his.
    ‘A nice gesture,’ she says. ‘Straight from an old movie. It seems incongruous somehow. Aren’t you afraid of infection?’
    ‘Nothing is more important in life than style, Frau Holl – and hysteria is the enemy of stylishness.’
    ‘I suppose your face is like a label,’ says Mia pensively. ‘You can stick it on whatever opinion you like.’
    ‘May I