In the afternoon they encountered Tonio again.
Or, more precisely: the figure who could be called Tonio.
Today she was not wearing festive clothes; she was wearing simple trousers, a shirt, and on her chest hung a small badge with the hotel logo. Employed, she had said. That is an art too.
She came toward them on a bridge, stopped because she recognized Hans, and smiled.
Not on duty.
More like the way one smiles when one recognizes someone who has awakened something in oneself.
“You are still on the road,” said the person.
Hans Castorp nodded.
“And you are still… employed,” he said.
The person laughed softly.
“One can also be employed and on the road,” she said. “That is the most modern form.”
Gustav von A. stood beside them.
He said nothing.
Tonio – let us, dear reader, dear readers, for the sake of simplicity call the figure that, because she has placed herself in this position – looked at Gustav.
The gaze slid over Gustav’s hair.
Over the face.
Over the scent that, when one is close enough, one cannot not smell.
Tonio did not smile.
Tonio only said:
“You have… changed.”
Gustav raised his chin.
“One must be well-groomed,” he said.
Tonio nodded slowly.
“One must many things,” said Tonio. “It is recommended.”
Hans Castorp felt a small laugh rise in his throat.
It was a bitter laugh.
For this “It is recommended” was suddenly everywhere. It was like a refrain that turns the world into a cure.
“What is recommended?” asked Hans Castorp.
Tonio looked at him.
And in this look there was something that was not a joke.
“That one does not fall ill,” said Tonio.
Gustav waved it away.
“One does not fall ill if one…,” he began.
Hans Castorp did not know what he wanted to say: if one is proper? if one washes oneself? if one has discipline? if one does bestforming?
Tonio interrupted him.
Not impolitely.
Just clearly.
“There are people in the house who have diarrhea,” said Tonio. “There are people who have fever. The kitchen disinfects more. The handrails are wiped more often. People smile more. And when people smile more, that is never a good sign.”
Hans Castorp looked at Tonio.
Gustav looked away.
“This is Venice,” said Gustav. “There is always something here.”
Tonio nodded.
“Yes,” said Tonio. “There is always something here. But sometimes it is more.”
Hans Castorp thought of the water.
He thought of the brown, reddish trace in the sink.
He thought of the hibiscus red.
He thought: red is never only beautiful.
“Why are you telling me this?” asked Hans Castorp.
Tonio shrugged her shoulders.
“Because you look as if you wanted to know,” said Tonio. “And because I…”
Tonio hesitated.
Then Tonio said, softly:
“Because I do not want people to stay too long.”
Hans Castorp felt a stab.
He thought of the last sentence of his previous evening.
That one stays too long.
He looked at Gustav.
Gustav did not look back.
Gustav looked, over Tonio’s shoulder, toward the lagoon.
And Hans Castorp knew: Gustav is staying.
Not because he does not understand.
Because he understands and stays anyway.
Such is the human being, dear reader, dear readers: he knows, and he does it anyway.
Tonio left.
Not offended.
Only with that small shadow on the face that employees are not supposed to show, but which sometimes slips through, because employees are also human, and humans, as said, are bad at wearing masks when things get serious.
Hans Castorp remained standing with Gustav on the bridge.
The water beneath them was green.
It smelled sweetish.
It was warm.
“We should perhaps…,” began Hans Castorp.
Gustav interrupted him.
“No,” he said.
Just this one word.
No.
It was not a defiant no.
It was a no like a punctuation mark.
Hans Castorp was silent.
He thought of Morgenstern.
He thought of the donkey mask.
He thought: Morgenstern wants to take off the mask because he no longer wants to assert blue.
And Gustav puts on a mask because he cannot bear the gray.
It is, dear reader, dear readers, one of life’s bitter comedies that we often apply our morality most strictly precisely where it does not hurt us – and that we soften it where it could save us.
