Not the time of feelings, not the time of memory, but the time of appointments: now this room, now that one, now wait, now move on. And Hans Castorp, who had once learned that time runs differently up there, now learned something new: time does not run differently today, it is managed differently.
In the end they led him into a room that looked less like equipment and more like conversation.
A desk. A chair. Two chairs. A screen. A window through which one saw snow, as if winter were the calming background image of the examination.
And there stood Dr. med. Wendelin Porsche.
In reality, he was less “cover” than in the brochure – and yet you recognized him immediately: the glasses, the open eyes, the orange tie that was at once festivity and warning color. He looked at Hans Castorp, and his gaze was warm, almost fatherly; but beneath this warmth lay something that was not quite whole: an urge, an impatience, as if he wanted to make people faster than they are.
“Mr. Castorp,” said Dr. Porsche, and his voice had that medical friendliness that at once calms and takes possession. “Welcome to the new year. Please sit down.”
Hans Castorp sat down.
Dr. Porsche did not sit down immediately. He remained standing for a moment, looked at the screen, at the printouts, at the curves, and Hans Castorp had the impression that this man is not only a doctor but also a conductor: he loves the order of numbers.
“So,” said Dr. Porsche, and now he really smiled, as if he wanted to give something beautiful. “Everything perfect.”
It is, esteemed female reader, esteemed male reader, a wonderful sentence. It turns a person into a success. And at the same time it is the most dangerous introduction, because it makes deviation possible in the first place.
Hans Castorp felt how he was relieved for a moment – and at the same moment ashamed of this relief. For what is relief other than the joy of not falling?
Dr. Porsche raised his index finger as if he wanted to make a small, elegant qualification.
“But,” he said.
Hans Castorp’s heart made a small, disorderly beat, as if it had been waiting for this word.
“…blood pressure,” said Dr. Porsche, and now his voice became more matter-of-fact, almost loving in its precision. “Diastole just over eighty. That is …” He let the pause take effect, as if the word were a label that one carefully sticks on. “…normal high.”
Normal high.
A pair of words like a hotel dome: transparent, comfortable, and yet a boundary.
“Normal high,” repeated Hans Castorp.
Dr. Porsche nodded.
“That is not an illness,” he said quickly, as if he had to reassure. “But it is …” He searched for a term, and here the crack showed: he did not find the old term of danger, but the new term of task. “…an optimization zone.”
Optimization zone.
Hans Castorp thought: I too am an optimization zone. I am not dead, I am not free. I am in between.
Dr. Porsche clicked on the screen, and now a number appeared that Hans Castorp did not immediately understand, because it did not look like blood pressure but like speed.
“We also measured your arterial stiffness,” said Dr. Porsche. “BaPWV. Right ten point three meters per second, left eleven point four.”
He pronounced the values as if they were weather data. Hans Castorp heard “meters per second” and involuntarily thought again of the name Porsche: speed everywhere.
“That is,” said Dr. Porsche, and now there was a hint of satisfaction in his voice, as if he had discovered something that justified him, “slightly elevated. Not dramatic. But interesting.”
Interesting.
One does not want to be interesting when it comes to vessels.
“What does that mean?” asked Hans Castorp.
Dr. Porsche leaned back, and his fatherly warmth returned, as if he wanted to tell a story.
“Your vessels,” he said, “are a bit … correct.”
Hans Castorp raised his eyebrows.
Dr. Porsche smiled briefly. It was a small, human smile, and in it lay the crack: he knew that he had just become metaphorical.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I sometimes speak like a writer when I am tired. I mean: the elasticity is no longer as it would be at twenty. That is normal. But we see it early. And if we see it early, we can …”
“…optimize,” said Hans Castorp.
Dr. Porsche nodded, and now there was, very briefly, something fanatical.
“Yes,” he said. “Optimize. Not in the sense of perfection, but in the sense of care. Rituals of personal hygiene.”
Rituals.
Hans Castorp thought of bloodletting. Of brochures. Of the chapel.
“Which rituals?” he asked.
Dr. Porsche raised his hand as if counting commandments.
“Hypertrophy,” he said. “Nutrition. Stress reduction. Sleep. Activity – mental and physical.”
Hypertrophy.
The word sounded as if a muscle had been baptized in Latin. Hans Castorp looked at Dr. Porsche.
“Hypertrophy,” he repeated slowly, “is therefore the new virtue.”
Dr. Porsche laughed briefly. It was a warm laugh, but beneath it lay something that did not laugh: the fear of time.
“If you like,” he said. “Muscles are a kind of interest. They pay you back later.”
Hans Castorp thought: interest. Again an account.
“And why are you telling me this?” he asked. “I am … perfect, after all.”
Dr. Porsche looked at him, and now his voice became quieter, almost confidential.
“Because perfection,” he said, “at your age is an achievement. And every achievement must be maintained.”
It was a sentence that sounded fatherly – and at the same time like a threat. Hans Castorp felt the words of Gustav von A. rise into his head:
If the body does not function, one cannot achieve.
“What do you recommend?” he asked.
Dr. Porsche reached into a drawer and pulled out two small tins.
