They went to the rack, and Zieser showed him how to take the bar at shoulder height, how to brace the belly, the ribs “down”, as if forcing the body into a shape the body does not assume of its own accord.
“Here it shows,” said Zieser, “whether you have order.”
Hans Castorp thought: Order – that word again.
“Eight,” said Zieser. “King set.”
Hans Castorp pressed the bar over his head. It was a different movement than bench pressing; it was less cozy, less bourgeois, more open. You cannot, when doing the shoulder press, pretend you are lying down and yet ruling the world. You sit. You lift.
He did eight.
He took notes.
Zieser had him stretch: sitting on the floor, hands behind the body, chest up.
“Five,” said Zieser.
Hans Castorp held.
“Four.”
He felt the opening in the shoulder like a small, controlled capitulation.
“Three.”
“Two.”
“One.”
Then set two: ten, lighter. Set three: twelve.
Hans Castorp felt the sweat coming. Not dramatic, not like in war, but like a modern, discreet dampness that says: You are working.
And he felt, with a strange Tonio‑like pang, that work on the body is a kind of work that no one sees if you do not record it. Hence the logbook. Hence the writing.
“Core,” said Zieser, as if it were self‑evident that after the big thing comes the smaller one, which, however, burns.
