They sat down again.
Gustav wrote.
Hans Castorp sat there, and his thoughts were, despite all practice, despite all rituals, back down on the highway again: they were driving, they were speeding, they were making noise.
He looked at his ring.
The ring showed him, soberly, that his pulse was slightly elevated. It showed him that the skin temperature had risen. It showed him that the day was “active”.
It was as if, in the middle of a tragedy, he were getting fitness feedback.
Hans Castorp felt a rage that was foreign to him.
He took the ring with his other hand, turned it a little, as if one could change something by turning.
He thought: I have learned to improve values. I have not learned to keep people.
Next to him Gustav was writing.
Then Hans heard a sound.
It was not loud. It was a cough, a gagging, something you do not want to hear on the beach, because the beach is supposed to be a stage for health.
Gustav suddenly stood up, too quickly.
He took two steps, stopped, bent forward slightly, as if he were looking at something – the water perhaps, the discoloration – and then he went, faster, away, behind the loungers, behind the sunshades.
Hans Castorp remained seated.
He did not know whether he should get up. He did not know whether he should follow. He did not know whether he should pretend that nothing was happening.
This is, esteemed female reader, esteemed male reader, the moment in which civilization reveals itself: in the art of not knowing how to help without disturbing the order.
Hans Castorp finally stood up.
He took, out of a movement that was not conscious, his thermos bottle – perhaps because it gave him support, perhaps because it was an object that promised him “hygiene”.
He went after Gustav.
Behind the loungers there was a narrow passage, a wooden walkway that led to the cabins.
Gustav was standing there, by a wall that was painted white, and was holding on with one hand. The other hand was in front of his mouth, as if he were holding something back.
Hans Castorp stepped closer.
“Gustav,” he said.
Gustav raised his gaze.
In this gaze there was no mask anymore.
“Go,” said Gustav.
“No,” said Hans Castorp.
Gustav laughed briefly – a dry, sick laugh.
“You are like a nurse,” he said.
Hans Castorp swallowed.
“I was never a nurse,” he said. “I was…” He paused, because he did not know what he was.
Gustav briefly closed his eyes.
“It is nothing,” he said again.
Hans Castorp looked at him. He saw the moisture on his forehead, the paleness under the makeup, the slight restlessness in his hands.
“You are lying,” he said softly.
Gustav opened his eyes.
“Of course,” he said. “That is the point of the mask.”
And then – as if the body had had enough of sentences – he doubled over, very briefly, and Hans Castorp heard again that sound that one does not want to hear.
Hans Castorp laid his hand on his back.
It was warm. It was too warm.
Gustav was breathing heavily.
“I do not need a doctor,” he said.
“You need…” Hans Castorp searched for a word that is not banal.
Gustav said, with a sudden sharpness:
“I need my sentence.”
Hans Castorp was silent.
That was the Tonio axis, which suddenly was no longer theory but body: the creator who believes that he may exist only as a creator.
“If the body does not work,” Gustav had once said, “one cannot create.”
And now the body was not working.
Hans Castorp felt a sentence come into his head that he did not want:
Perhaps this is the punishment: not for false sentences, but for the belief that sentences save.
“Come,” said Hans Castorp. “We are going to the hotel.”
Gustav shook his head.
“Not yet,” he said.
Hans Castorp exhaled.
“Too long,” he said, and he did not know whether he was saying it to Gustav or to himself.
Gustav looked at him.
“Yes,” he said.
