He placed them on the table, the way one sets up relics.
One was dark yellow, the other grass green. The colors were so distinct that they almost became symbolic: yellow like spice, like sun, like medicine; green like plant, like hope, like lagoon.
“This,” said Dr. Porsche, and you could hear that he loves this moment, “is my morning longevity ceremony.”
Hans Castorp felt a smile come to him, not out of mockery, more out of amazement. Ceremony. A doctor who says ceremony. And yet it fit, because in this house everything is ceremony.
Dr. Porsche continued, very precise, very calm – and in this precision lay the crack: the passion.
“In the morning you weigh out,” he said, “three to three and a half grams of this health powder.”
He tapped on the yellow tin.
“Dark yellow. Turmeric forty-five percent, pepper five, ginger thirty, black cumin ten, amla five, coriander five.”
He spoke the percentages as if they were prayers. Hans Castorp thought of children listing ingredients; and of pharmacists mixing poisons.
“You mix it with a little water,” Dr. Porsche went on, “and you drink it slowly, in individual sips – and before each sip you gargle a little.”
“Gargle,” repeated Hans Castorp.
“Yes,” said Dr. Porsche seriously. “The mouth is a gate. And gates need care.”
Hans Castorp thought of threshold guardians, of the dog in the dome. Gates everywhere.
“Then,” said Dr. Porsche, “you take a little more than one gram of bitter drops – classic – in a shot glass. A little lemon juice with it. Drink.”
He made a small hand movement, as if he were drinking himself. Hans Castorp saw the orange tie, how it moved a little, and thought that this man, as dapper as he is, is also a bit of a priest.
“Then,” continued Dr. Porsche, “hibiscus white tea. Prepared the evening before. A small handful of dried hibiscus blossoms, and …” He paused briefly, as if checking a formulation. “…a pinch of dried white tea leaves. You let it steep with not quite boiling water. In the morning you filter it. The color is deep red. It is probably the healthiest drink made from 2 ingredients that you can take.”
Deep red.
Hans Castorp thought of blood. Of tunnels. Of lilies. Of Venice perhaps – of water that can turn red if you look at it too long.
Dr. Porsche moved the green tin a little forward, as if that were the real act.
“And into this tea,” he said, “you mix two point five to three grams of my longevity powder. Grass green. Ratio two to two to one: NMN powder, betaine powder, matcha powder.”
He said matcha with a slight, modern pride, as if he had invented Japan.
Hans Castorp looked at the tin. Grass green. And inwardly heard Morgenstern’s phrase: blue grass. Here it was now, the grass, but green, correct, dosed.
“And with that you take the tablets,” said Dr. Porsche, and now, for all the ceremony, he became quite prosaic, almost businesslike – here the crack showed itself as a change of register.
“Base: vitamin D3/K2. One hundred milligrams of acetylsalicylic acid. Resveratrol. Magnesium, if you exercise. Multivitamin, multimineral, multi-trace elements – with iodine, important. Q10. And for blood sugar stabilization: metformin.”
Metformin.
The word sounded as if it were being spoken in an engine room. Hans Castorp swallowed.
“That is a lot,” he said.
Dr. Porsche nodded, and now he was warm again, almost apologetic.
“It is not a lot,” he said, “if you understand it as a ritual. It is a lot if you understand it as a burden. We want it as …” He searched for the word, and you could see that he meant it seriously. “…hygiene.”
Hans Castorp thought: today hygiene is the new morality. You wash yourself, and you wash yourself, and you hope that guilt is washable.
“And what about my blood pressure?” asked Hans Castorp.
Dr. Porsche reached for a small device that lay on the table as if it were there by chance: a blood pressure monitor, clean, modern, with cuff.
“From now on you measure daily,” he said, “before going to bed. Always at the same time. Not obsessively.”
He said the word obsessively quickly, as if he knew that this is exactly what can happen.
“You write it down,” he added.
Hans Castorp felt the little wooden stick in his pocket. Writing.
“And the stay?” he asked, cautiously.
Dr. Porsche smiled, and this time the smile was both friendly and businesslike.
“At least three overnight stays,” he said, and you could hear that he has the brochure in his head. “But if you ask me – and you are asking me, otherwise you wouldn’t be sitting here – then it would be wise to stay longer.”
“Why?” asked Hans Castorp, although he guessed the answer.
Dr. Porsche looked at him. And now came the sentence that sums everything up without admitting it:
“Because you don’t do optimization in passing,” he said. “And because you – forgive me for putting it this way – are not the type who finishes quickly.”
Hans Castorp smiled politely.
“I’ll stay,” he said, and in that sentence there was, as so often, more truth than he had intended.
Dr. Porsche nodded with satisfaction, and now the crack showed itself in a small, human tiredness: as if he knew that this staying is not only a success, but also a danger.
“Good,” he said. “Then we’ll turn your ‘normally high’ into ‘normally good’.”
Normally good.
Hans Castorp thought: here language becomes a thermostat.
Dr. Porsche stood up, handed Hans Castorp the two tins, as if he were giving him not powder but a new identity.
“One more thing,” he said, and his voice became quiet again. “You are healthy, Mr. Castorp. Don’t forget that. But today health is no longer a condition. It is a task.”
Hans Castorp took the tins.
He nodded.
He stood up, took the cuff, the printouts, the numbers. And he had the feeling that he no longer left the room as a guest, but as a case. As a project. As a program.
