He went down into the reception hall, that stage of coming and going which, the longer one lingers in such houses, the more reveals itself as what it is: an administrative office of identities. Here one says one’s name, here one receives keys, here one is kindly examined, here one is, if one is strict, registered.
Herr Kautsonik stood, as so often, at the round table that rested on twisted root wood, as if the tree had been forbidden to walk and instead had been fitted with a tabletop so that it might serve enjoyment. On the table stood glasses; beside them lay stollen, and the crumbs he brushed off looked like the small traces of time that cannot be avoided even in luxury. He was, in his dark jacket with the light seams, a figure of order; and at the same time he was, in his nature, a figure of finitude, because he, as Hans Castorp knew, had already factored death in as a form of service.
“Good morning, sir,” said Kautsonik.
“Good morning,” answered Hans Castorp.
He hesitated for a moment, because it is disagreeable to ask for help when, fundamentally, one simply does not want to admit that one does not understand something. But helplessness, as has been said, is cold.
“Tell me,” he began, “where do I find the doctor?”
Kautsonik raised his eyebrows, and in his gaze there was a kind of discreet cheerfulness, as if Hans Castorp had asked about something that in this house was as self-evident as towels.
“Which doctor?” he asked.
“The…” Hans Castorp paused briefly, as if he could not get used to the letters. “…AuDHS.”
Kautsonik nodded, without surprise. It was as if he had been hearing the acronyms of this time for so long that they were as familiar to him as names once were.
“The doctor,” he said, and in the form of address there lay that old-fashioned, pleasantly unmodern dignity that Kautsonik gave to all offices, “is in the house. I will have him fetched.”
“Fetched?” asked Hans Castorp.
Kautsonik smiled briefly.
“Everything is fetched here,” he said. “Towels. Tea. Doctors.”
He turned half away, spoke into a device that today is called a telephone but in truth is a portable command book, and said, without pathos: “The doctor to reception, please.”
Then he returned to Hans Castorp, as if he had just ordered a bottle of water.
“He is coming,” he said. “The doctor always comes.”
Hans Castorp thought that in a house of longevity this could quite well be understood as a threat.
“Thank you,” he said.
Kautsonik nodded.
“You are…” He left the sentence open, as he knew how. Hotel language is an art of suggestion.
“Helpless,” said Hans Castorp, and he was annoyed by the word because it was too honest.
Kautsonik looked at him, and in his gaze there was for a moment something that was not official.
“Helplessness,” he said dryly, “is also a program. It just doesn’t appear in the brochure.”
Hans Castorp smiled. It was a polite smile. And a little disagreeable.
