Hans Castorp felt a warmth rise in his neck that did not come from the fire of the candles. New, he thought. New is always suspicious. New is always recordable.<\/p>\n
\u201cOne could call it that,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
The doctor stepped closer to the railing, looked down at the table with the stollen, at the lilies, at the people moving there, and he said, almost casually:<\/p>\n
\u201cNew Year\u2019s Day is a strange day. Everyone is exhausted, but everyone acts as if they were renewed.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat is the program,\u201d said Hans Castorp.<\/p>\n
\u201cAh,\u201d said the doctor. \u201cYou already speak like we do.\u201d<\/p>\n
He let his gaze return to Hans Castorp. This gaze remained, like an instrument, a tick too long on Hans\u2019s face, on his hands, on the posture of his shoulders, as if he were reading, without reading, the aftereffects of the night.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou were down there yesterday?\u201d asked the doctor.<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp thought of the ice bar, of the fireworks, of the twitching of his body, and he felt a reflex stab into his chest \u2013 not pain, more like memory in physiological form.<\/p>\n
\u201cI was\u2026 there,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd?\u201d asked the doctor.<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp could have answered: It was beautiful. It was unsatisfying. It was war game. It was masquerade. It was home. He could have said many things; but he said, because he was Castorp and not Settembrini, not Naphta, not someone who likes to talk, only this:<\/p>\n
\u201cIt was loud.\u201d<\/p>\n
The doctor nodded.<\/p>\n
\u201cLoud is always more for the body than for the mind,\u201d he said. \u201cThe mind can pretend it is uninvolved. The body cannot. It is honest.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp regarded him.<\/p>\n
\u201cAre you a physician?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cI am a doctor,\u201d said the doctor. \u201cThat is already a lot today.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp smiled. It was a polite smile, and it was, as he knew it in himself, a little unsatisfying, because he knew while doing it that he was smiling.<\/p>\n
The doctor continued, in that gentle, matter-of-fact manner that at the same time calms and delivers you up:<\/p>\n
\u201cYou wear a collar like a shield. You have your hands in your pockets as if you were holding on to something. And your pupils are still\u2026\u201d He paused, as if weighing a word. \u201c\u2026restless.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp felt his breath catch for a moment \u2013 not from fear, but from that small annoyance one feels when one is seen.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou see a lot, Doctor,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s what I\u2019m here for,\u201d replied the doctor. \u201cUp here they call it: care. They used to call it: observation.\u201d<\/p>\n
He leaned against the railing. Below, someone picked up a glass, another laughed; the day continued its administration.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou know,\u201d said the doctor, \u201cwhat people up here actually buy?\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp thought: Time. Warmth. Forgetting.<\/p>\n
\u201cLongevity,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
The doctor shook his head.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d he said. \u201cThey buy the feeling that their life is a project. That you can work on it the way you work on a fa\u00e7ade. That is the new morality: optimization.\u201d<\/p>\n
He said the word without mockery, but you could hear that he did not quite like it \u2013 not because it would be wrong, but because it fits too well.<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp looked at the books that stood on the shelves, neatly lined up, with spines that shone in different colors, as if they were goods.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd the books?\u201d he asked. \u201cWhat do they buy with those?\u201d<\/p>\n
The doctor followed his gaze.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe illusion of depth,\u201d he said calmly. \u201cA book today is a piece of furniture that claims one has time.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp was silent. A sadness stirred in him \u2013 quiet, unsatisfying. Not because he was sentimental, but because he sensed that the doctor was right and that being right is something cold.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd you?\u201d asked the doctor suddenly. \u201cWhat do you buy?\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp felt the word \u201cname\u201d rise to his tongue like a foreign body.<\/p>\n
He thought of the man who wrote names in the night. He thought of the little wooden stick the woman had given him. It was still in his pocket; he felt it now, as if it had suddenly become heavy. A ridiculous thing \u2013 and yet it was there like a piece of evidence.<\/p>\n
\u201cI buy nothing,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
The doctor smiled again, that calm smile.<\/p>\n
\u201cOf course,\u201d he said. \u201cThat\u2019s what all those who buy the most say.\u201d<\/p>\n