In the evening the sky above the lagoon was of that kind of red that is not friendly.
There is, esteemed female reader, esteemed male reader, a difference between a red that adorns and a red that warns. This red was no adornment.
Hans Castorp sat in his room.
He had pressed the day, as well as he could, into rituals: tea, tablets, steps – he was as if he were afraid that if he did not count, everything would fall apart.
The ring had given him a little message in the evening:
Activity: goal reached.
Hans Castorp looked at the number.
He had taken more than ten thousand steps.
He thought: I have been on the beach, I have walked through alleys, I have walked behind Gustav.
Ten thousand steps, esteemed female reader, esteemed male reader, are sometimes nothing other than a circular movement around an abyss.
He stood up, went to the window.
The water outside was dark.
And yet: in one place where the light of the sky fell into it, it shimmered red.
Hans Castorp thought of the morning, of the rosy jet from the tap. He thought of the hibiscus. He thought of the red stripe on the shore.
He thought: The water has turned red because one stays too long.
There was a knock.
Hans Castorp turned around.
A voice – not Kautsonik, not that dry sun of the highlands; here everything was softer, more foreign – said:
“Signore Castorp?”
Hans Castorp opened.
A man stood there, in uniform, polite, with that polite rigidity that one finds in people who are supposed to give bad news in such a way that it does not disturb.
“Signore Gustav…” he said.
Hans Castorp felt his heart go into his chest.
“Yes?” he said.
The man cleared his throat.
“He is… unwell,” he said, and you could tell that he had searched for the word in order to say nothing. “Doctor… coming.”
Hans Castorp nodded.
“I’m coming,” he said.
He went.
The corridor was quiet. The carpets swallowed the steps. It smelled more strongly of disinfectant.
In front of Gustav’s door stood two people: a man, a woman, both in medical clothing that was so neutral that it looked like hotel. A doctor, a nursing staff – or a service that pretends to be medicine.
Hans Castorp entered.
Gustav was lying in bed.
He looked small.
That is, esteemed female reader, esteemed male reader, one of the cruellest realizations: every person, even the creative one, even the one who holds the world with sentences, becomes a child again in bed.
Gustav looked at Hans.
He did not smile.
“You have come,” he said.
Hans Castorp nodded.
“Yes,” he said. “I have stayed.”
Gustav closed his eyes.
“Of course,” he said softly. “That is your talent.”
The female doctor – or whoever she was – spoke of “gastroenteritis”, of “fluid”, of “observation”. She spoke in that tone that simultaneously calms and disempowers.
Gustav listened as if he were listening to music.
Hans Castorp heard only the word “water”.
“Has he…?” Hans began.
The woman nodded barely noticeably.
“Water,” she said again. “We recommend…”
Recommendation.
Hans Castorp could have laughed.
In that moment, if he had been malicious, he could have said: Life is a recommendation, and death is the implementation.
He was not malicious. He was only tired.
Gustav opened his eyes.
“Go,” he said suddenly.
Hans Castorp stared at him.
“No,” he said.
Gustav smiled weakly.
“You are stubborn,” he said.
Hans Castorp was silent.
Gustav looked to the side, where his notebook lay – on the bedside table, like a heart that has been put down.
“Give me that,” he said.
Hans Castorp took the notebook, handed it to him.
Gustav held it as if he were holding something warm.
Then he said, without looking at Hans:
“If I…” He faltered. “If I no longer…”
Hans Castorp felt his throat tighten.
“Then?” he asked.
Gustav said:
“Write.”
Hans Castorp stared at him.
“Me?” he said.
Gustav nodded.
“You can write,” he said. “You just pretend that you cannot.”
Hans Castorp swallowed.
“I write values,” he said.
Gustav laughed – a short, dry, exhausted sound.
“Values,” he said. “Write sentences.”
Hans Castorp looked at the notebook.
He saw the pages that Gustav had filled.
He felt an envy that was at the same time admiration.
“Why?” he asked, and it sounded childlike.
Gustav closed his eyes.
“Because someone has to stay,” he said. “Not in the hotel. In the sentence.”
Hans Castorp was silent.
He sat down.
He stayed.
