Below, at the edge of the reception hall, stood Kautsonik.
He did not stand, he was there; like a piece of furniture that can speak. His suit fit perfectly, his posture was that old-hotel-like mixture of servility and dignity, and you could sense that this man, if you took the sun away from him, would still remain standing in the lobby, because standing had become his profession and his character.
“Mr. Castorp,” said Kautsonik and inclined his head, as if even nodding were a ritual.
Hans Castorp nodded back.
“I’m going out for a bit,” he said, and it sounded as if in this house one even had to register walking.
Kautsonik smiled dryly.
“Very good,” he said. “Movement is important. Sitting is the new smoking, they say.”
Hans Castorp had to laugh, quietly. It was funny to hear these sentences from Zieser’s mouth, from Porsche’s mouth, from AuDHS’ mouth – and now from Kautsonik’s mouth, as if they were common property, like salt.
Kautsonik looked at Hans’ hand.
“The ring,” he said. “Fancy.”
Hans Castorp felt the reflex to hide his hand.
“It measures,” he said.
“Yes,” said Kautsonik. “Everything measures. We even measure joy. You know: feedback forms.”
He paused briefly, and in this pause lay what in hotels is called discreet seriousness.
“Only,” he then said, “if something is ever missing…” He raised his eyebrows. “…then the system asks. Not me. The system.”
Hans Castorp looked at him.
“What is missing?” he asked.
Kautsonik shrugged his shoulders.
“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing yet. I’m only saying it because I am a friendly person. Guest Relations, not Gestapo.”
He said it again, and again it was funny, and again there was a chill in the background.
Hans Castorp nodded.
“Joy to him who comes,” he said softly, more to himself than to Kautsonik.
“Yes,” said Kautsonik. “And joy to him who goes.”
Hans Castorp nodded, and this time the nod was not just politeness, but a decision.
He went.
