He was not tall, but he was built as if they had taken the size out of him in order to turn it into density. His shoulders were broad, but not heavy; his waist was narrow, and his posture had that peculiar uprightness that does not seem proud, but functional – as if the back were a principle. He wore dark, simple training clothes, no colorfulness, no brand, and yet you could see at once: This is a man who does not possess his body like a garment, but like a work.
His face was not youthful, but it was smooth in a way that did not seem cosmetic, but disciplined. The eyes were clear. They did not look friendly, they looked precise. And in the corner of his mouth there was something that could be read as a smile, if you wanted – but you had to want to.
Dr. AuDHS said, as in a handover:
“Mr. Castorp. This is Prof. Zieser.”
Zieser extended his hand to Hans Castorp, brief, dry, without pressure play.
“Mr. Castorp,” he said. “Pleased to meet you.”
Hans Castorp said, as he had learned:
“Good morning.”
Zieser nodded and said, as if it were a greeting and a diagnosis at the same time:
“Measure what matters.”
Hans Castorp blinked.
“What…” he began.
Zieser raised his hand, as if he wanted to turn the explanation back into action at once.
“You are at a loss,” he said, without reproach. “Good. Being at a loss is the beginning of every order.”
Dr. AuDHS smiled as if he had expected exactly that.
“I’ll leave you,” said Dr. AuDHS, and in his tone there was the quiet enjoyment of handing someone over into a system. “Frank. He’ll take over.”
Then he left, and for a moment Hans Castorp had the feeling that the cube had become airless, because the essay voice had disappeared and only the craftsman remained.
Zieser looked at Hans Castorp.
“You have never really trained with the barbell?” he asked.
Hans Castorp hesitated. He did not want to seem like a beginner. And yet he was one.
“Not… really,” he said.
Zieser nodded.
“Even Pippi Longstocking knew,” he said, and the sentence, as unedifyingly childish as it was, suited him precisely because it did not suit him: “I have never done that before, so I’m sure I can do it.”
Hans Castorp had to smile. It was a genuine smile, and he was annoyed by it, because it had already wrapped him up a little.
“Keep it simple,” said Zieser and walked ahead into the white area.
Hans Castorp followed him.
The rack stood there like a scaffold, and the bar lay in it like a line that one has to cross. On the wall there was a screen that glowed silently, as if it were waiting to register something. Next to it a small shelf: collars, plates, a stick. And on a bench lay – as if it were the most modern form of the curve – a logbook.
“Analog?” asked Hans Castorp, surprised.
Zieser took the book, opened it, and you could see that it was already written in, in a clear handwriting that did not want to be beautiful, but legible.
“Who writes, remains,” said Zieser.
Hans Castorp felt how the word remains went into his chest, because it touched something that had nothing to do with training.
Zieser placed the logbook on the bench.
“Rule one,” he said. “A set is only finished when it is noted. Otherwise it is only feeling. And feeling is…”
“…smearable,” said Hans Castorp, and he did not know why he said the word; but he thought of his little wooden stick, of the night, of the fogging of a window.
Zieser looked at him briefly, as if he were checking whether there was more than muscle.
“Exactly,” he said. “And we do not train smearing. We train repeating.”
Hans Castorp swallowed.
“And what about…” He searched. “…hypertrophy?”
Zieser pointed to the body as if it were the simplest answer.
“Muscle building is simple,” he said. Then he paused longer than necessary, so that the second part came like a verdict: “but hard.”
Hans Castorp nodded. He was not sure whether he agreed or surrendered.
“I’ll briefly explain the logic to you,” said Zieser. “Then we do.”
“Do,” repeated Hans Castorp.
“First things first,” said Zieser. “Second things never.”
Hans Castorp did not know what that was supposed to mean. But he felt that it announced an order.
“Three days,” said Zieser. “Push, legs, pull. Three patterns. And in each pattern: i5.”
“i5?” asked Hans Castorp.
“Intensity 5 out of 5: king set,” said Zieser. “Also called descending pyramid. Eight, ten, twelve. Heavy, lighter, even lighter. The first set is the king. The rest is discipline.”
Hans Castorp looked at the bar.
“And if I…” he began.
Zieser raised his hand.
“If you really want something, you’ll find a way,” he said, and his voice did not get louder, only harder. “Otherwise an excuse.”
Hans Castorp felt the excuses rise in his throat – age, unfamiliarity, caution – and at the same time how ridiculous they seemed next to the metal.
“Right here, right now,” said Zieser quietly. And then: “Warm-up.”
He took the stick, handed it to Hans, and Hans Castorp held it the way you hold a foreign object: carefully, as if it could mean something.
“Shoulder circles,” said Zieser. “Wide. Then narrow.”
Hans Castorp made the movement, and it was astonishing how quickly the body understands what it is supposed to do when you give it a direction. The stick rolled in his hands. Nothing grated, it only cracked softly, like an old house.
“Three backwards, three forwards,” said Zieser. “Slow. Don’t prove. Wake up.”
Hans Castorp thought: Wake up – as if you had muscles that sleep.
Then came the stretch with the stick behind the back. Hands closer, hold.
“Five,” said Zieser.
Hans Castorp held.
“Four.”
He held.
“Three.”
He felt how the pulling in his shoulders was a kind of truth.
“Two.”
“One.”
It was a small countdown, and Hans Castorp found it strangely comforting. Time that you can count is less threatening than time that simply passes.
“Good,” said Zieser. “Now bench.”
