“Good morning,” said Kautsonik, when Hans Castorp was standing in front of the counter.
“Good morning,” said Hans Castorp.
Kautsonik looked at him, not intrusive, but precise. He saw the posture, the shoulders, the calm in the movement. He saw – and that was his talent – what did not need to be said.
“Sir,” he said, “is… in shape.”
Hans Castorp smiled. In shape. A word that used to sound like dance class and today like salvation.
“One does what one can,” said Hans Castorp.
Kautsonik raised his eyebrows.
“That is already a lot,” he said dryly. “Most do what the house can.”
Hans Castorp felt a small sting, because the sentence, in its dryness, was so true. He thought of Dr. Porsche, of plans, of powders, of the language that had become thermostat.
Kautsonik pulled a small card out of a drawer. It was not a postcard, no greeting, but a piece of paper on which something was written in neat handwriting. He put it down the way one puts things down in a good hotel: not like a demand, but like an offer that nevertheless cannot be refused.
“We have here,” he said, “a small formality.”
Formality. A word that smells of office and yet, in Hans Castorp’s head, of parade ground.
He bent forward, looked at the paper.
It was a printout from the system: name, room number, length of stay, a few boxes that could be ticked. Below that a line for the signature.
“Is that necessary?” asked Hans Castorp, and he himself heard that the question was more than a question. It was a reflex.
Kautsonik nodded.
“Long-term guests,” he said. “The house…” He made a small pause. “…loves order. And the municipality loves order. You know: registration form.”
Hans Castorp nodded slowly. Registration form. Yes. One registers. One deregisters. One is registered.
“It is nothing,” said Kautsonik, as if he had seen Hans Castorp’s inner twitch. “Only paper.”
Only paper.
Hans Castorp thought of Tonio, of writing, of the warmth and the sadness that can live in a sentence. Paper is never just paper. Paper is trace.
He felt the ring on his finger grow warm, as if it were alive. He did not know whether it was imagination or whether the device was actually registering his skin temperature; but since Dr. Porsche, he had learned that imagination and measurement like to shake hands in such matters.
“I…,” he began.
Kautsonik raised his hand, very slightly.
“Sir does not have to explain himself,” he said. “He only has to sign. He does not have to say who he is. He only has to confirm that he is called what he is called here.”
Hans Castorp looked at him.
“That is a difference,” said Kautsonik.
Hans Castorp was silent. He thought: Yes. That is the difference between name and alias. Between life and paper.
He took the pen that was lying on the counter – a real pen, no little wooden stick, no stylus, but a banal ballpoint pen. He began to write.
His hand did not tremble. But inwardly, somewhere behind his breastbone, something trembled that was older than he himself: the fear that writing makes one findable.
He signed.
Kautsonik took the paper without looking at it and placed it on a stack that already consisted of many names.
“Thank you,” he said, and the thank you did not sound like gratitude from him, but like conclusion.
Hans Castorp exhaled.
He felt, strangely enough, relieved – and in this relief already lay the modern trap: one is grateful when the control is only formal.
“And,” said Kautsonik, as if this were only the beginning now, “if sir has five minutes…”
“Five minutes,” repeated Hans Castorp.
Kautsonik smiled this time, very slightly.
“I know,” he said. “Time is… different up here. But five minutes are five minutes. Come.”
He opened a small door next to the counter. Earlier it might have said “Private” there. Today it said there, in neutral lettering: Staff Only.
Staff Only. That was, strictly speaking, the modern form of “Forbidden”.
Kautsonik held the door open.
Hans Castorp hesitated.
Then he stepped inside.
