History. The word here did not sound like story, but like file.
“You keep… histories?”, asked Hans Castorp.
Kautsonik smiled dryly.
“We keep everything,” he said. “We keep lists. We keep names. We keep wishes. We keep complaints. We keep, if necessary, even tears.”
Hans Castorp swallowed. He thought of Dr. Porsche, who billed time expenditure. Here, time expenditure was a field.
Kautsonik did not sit down. He stood. In the back office there were chairs, yes, but Kautsonik stood as if sitting were a betrayal.
“Sir,” he said, “is curious. That is rare.”
Hans Castorp smiled. Curiosity. A word that had always been a form of escape for him.
“I…”, he began.
Kautsonik raised his hand again.
“You do not have to explain yourself, sir,” he said. “I explain. That is what I am here for. Guest Relations. Relationship maintenance. And, to be honest: trace maintenance.”
He pulled a folder from the shelf. It was old. Leather, worn, with a rubber band that looked too modern to fit. Kautsonik laid it on the table and opened it.
Inside were pages, handwritten, neat, in ink. Names. Dates. Room numbers. Small notes in the margin.
Hans Castorp leaned forward.
“This is…”, he said.
“This was,” said Kautsonik. “Earlier. When people still believed that writing is private. Today we no longer write. Today we type. And the typing,” he tapped his finger on the monitor, “no longer goes away.”
Hans Castorp thought of the ring. Of the steps. Of the nights. Of the blank line in the logbook.
“Those who write, remain,” he said softly, and the sentence sounded different here than with Zieser. It did not sound like training, but like arrest.
Kautsonik looked at him.
“Yes,” he said. “And those who write are also found when someone wants to search.”
Hans Castorp felt a slight film of sweat on his skin.
Kautsonik opened a page. Hans saw names. He saw handwriting that was different, and he suddenly felt that every handwriting is a body. Some were sweeping, some petty, some shaky. One was so fine that it almost wanted to disappear.
“This,” said Kautsonik, pointing to a shaky script, “was a lady. She came every year. She was friendly. She always said: ‘I so like being here.’ And every year she smelled a little more like hospital.”
Hans Castorp was silent.
“She left,” said Kautsonik. “Not from the house. From the world. And I have her name here.” He tapped on the paper. “That is all that remains.”
Hans Castorp thought: That is Guest Relations. Relationship to disappearance.
Kautsonik closed the folder again, slowly, as if he were laying a person to rest.
“And now,” he said, and his voice became more matter-of-fact again, “look at this.”
He turned a monitor so that Hans Castorp could see it.
A profile appeared on the screen. At the top was a name. Below: room, length of stay, status. Below: preferences.
Hans Castorp looked.
He saw his own profile.
He saw – and that was the sting – not his life, but his categories. He saw that he had been put on a list, without ill will.
Preference: quiet.
Aversion: fireworks.
Program: Dr. Porsche.
Activity: GYMcube, 3s i5.
Nutrition: DefaultOptimum (Deload/Refeed).
Note: “No calls after 9 pm, please.”
Hans Castorp stared at the sentence.
“No calls after 9 pm, please.”
He had never said that. Or had he? Maybe he had once, casually, as if it had no meaning. Maybe he had said it because he had to measure his diastole at night, because he wanted to calm his thought highway, because, in truth, he was afraid of ringing devices. And now it stood there as if it were a character trait.
“This is…”, he began.
“Service,” said Kautsonik.
Hans Castorp laughed briefly. It was not a cheerful laugh.
“Service,” he repeated.
Kautsonik nodded.
“Yes,” he said. “One remembers things. That is polite. And it is control. Both at once.”
He looked at Hans Castorp, and in this look there was no threat, but something that was almost pity: the realization that the guest had just seen himself as a data set.
“You, sir,” said Kautsonik, “are afraid of visibility.”
Hans Castorp felt the sentence drop into his stomach.
“I…”, he said.
“No,” said Kautsonik calmly. “You do not have to. I see that. I see that because I have been seeing for decades. I see when someone does not want to be photographed. I see when someone does not want an invoice by e-mail. I see when someone does not want to hear their name.”
Hans Castorp swallowed.
“And what do you do?”, he asked.
Kautsonik smiled again, dryly.
“I do what I always do,” he said. “I guard the threshold. I let through what may pass through. And I hold back what should be held back. I am a porter. Guest Relations is only…” He shrugged. “…the modern mask.”
Mask.
Hans Castorp thought of Venice without knowing why. Mask. Rejuvenation. Decay. Water. Time.
