The next day – for of course there is always a next day, even after dying on one’s feet, and this next day is the real malice of time – Hans Castorp met Morgenstern.
He did not meet him in a dramatic moment, not in a grand scene; he met him the way one meets people in hotels: in the corridor, between doors, between program items.
Morgenstern was carrying a backpack, and beside him walked two children who were arguing, not loudly, but with that intensity children possess when they are negotiating something important: who may press first, who may run first, who may live first.
Morgenstern’s wife walked beside them, calm, but not tired.
Hans Castorp saw how Morgenstern – quite naturally – took a step so that he was between child and wife, not as a shield, but as part of the team. Partnership as a way of walking.
Morgenstern saw Hans, and in his face there was a brief start, as if Hans’s return were a reminder that circles really do close.
“You are back,” he said.
Hans Castorp nodded.
“Yes,” he said.
Morgenstern looked at Hans’s hand.
“The ring?” he asked.
Hans Castorp raised his hand.
The ring was no longer on his finger.
Only the pale imprint was there, a thin circle on skin.
Morgenstern smiled.
“You have…” he began.
“I took it off,” said Hans.
Morgenstern nodded, and in this nod there was something that was like respect – not the big, moral word, but the small, practical recognition: someone has done something hard.
“I also took something off,” said Morgenstern.
“What?” asked Hans.
Morgenstern hesitated a moment, looked at his children, at his wife, and then said, softly, as if it were a confession:
“A leech,” he said.
Hans Castorp looked at him.
“And?” he asked.
Morgenstern smiled briefly.
“It bit,” he said. “But it…” He searched for a word that is not pathetic, and found it, as people find it who think slowly: “…helped.”
Hans Castorp nodded.
He thought: That is System 2. Not the big thinking. The small acting.
Morgenstern looked at him.
“And you?” he asked.
Hans Castorp hesitated.
He thought of Gustav.
He thought of Kautsonik.
He thought of the writing on the wall.
He said, because it was the only thing that was not a lie:
“I am going,” he said.
Morgenstern blinked.
“Where to?” he asked.
Hans Castorp smiled.
“Down,” he said.
Morgenstern looked at him, for a long time, and in his gaze there was an understanding that does not come from concepts, but from fear and love.
“Joy to the one who goes,” said Morgenstern softly.
Hans Castorp nodded.
“Yes,” he said. “Joy to the one who goes.”
He did not know whether it was joy.
But he knew that it was movement.
