Behind the counter, the world was different.
The hall could still be heard, muffled: voices, rolling suitcases, the clinking of glasses, the hum of that technology which says: everything is under control. But here, behind the door, it smelled of paper and printer heat, of coffee, of cleaning agent; it smelled of work, not of experience.
A narrow corridor led to a room that did not want to be a room, but a function: back office.
There were desks there. Monitors. Folders. A shelf with key cards, neatly in rows, as if they were teeth. On the wall hung a schedule: arrivals, departures, VIP, complaints, wishes. The words were so neutral that it was precisely because of this that they had something cold.
Kautsonik stepped inside as if entering a church.
He did not walk faster, not slower; he walked as he always walked. And Hans Castorp felt that this man was more at home in this room than in any apartment.
“This,” said Kautsonik, making a small gesture over the monitors, “is the heart.”
Hans Castorp looked at the screens. On one was a list: names, room numbers, arrival time, departure time. On another: profiles. On a third: a system that looked like a calendar but did not manage time, it managed people.
“Guest Relations,” said Hans Castorp, more to himself than to Kautsonik.
Kautsonik nodded.
“Yes,” he said. “That’s what they call it. In the past they said: reception. That was more honest. Reception means: you come, I take you. Relations means: you are a relationship.”
He said “relationship” with an emphasis that revealed he did not believe the word.
Hans Castorp stepped closer. His gaze fell on a folder that lay open on a table. On the cover, in large letters, it said: History.
