Hans Castorp looked at him.<\/p>\n
\u201cHere?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n
Kautsonik indicated with a small hand movement the hall, the chandelier, the counter, the words on the wall.<\/p>\n
\u201cHere,\u201d he said. \u201cStanding up. At reception. That would suit me. I have always said: If I am going to go, then in such a way that I don\u2019t collapse like a guest.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp felt a warmth stir in him \u2013 a mixture of comedy and abyss, as Mann loves. He thought: This man, who has served all his life, wishes for death as service. And I, who have avoided service, go on living \u2013 and drink champagne.<\/p>\n
He looked at the writing on the wall.<\/p>\n
Joy to him who comes. Joy to him who goes.<\/p>\n
Kautsonik followed his gaze.<\/p>\n
\u201cNice, isn\u2019t it?\u201d he said. \u201cI have read this sentence a thousand times. Sometimes I think: It is a bit too friendly. Sometimes I think: It is exactly right. It keeps people moving.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp thought: Movement is what I have avoided.<\/p>\n
\u201cJoy to him who goes,\u201d he repeated.<\/p>\n
Kautsonik nodded.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d he said. \u201cBut most don\u2019t want to go. Most want to stay. And those who have to go\u2026\u201d He paused briefly and looked at the lilies. \u201cThey don\u2019t go voluntarily.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp was silent.<\/p>\n
Kautsonik took a piece of stollen, put it on a small plate and pushed the plate over to Hans with a gesture that was at once an offer and a command.<\/p>\n
\u201cEat,\u201d he said. \u201cIt is New Year. You have to take something sweet, otherwise the year will be bitter.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp took the plate.<\/p>\n
He bit.<\/p>\n
The stollen was heavy and sweet, and the powdered sugar stuck to his lips like a small mask. He thought of the wooden stick in his pocket; he thought of the doctor who had said his name; he thought of the woman who had called him old-fashioned; and he thought of Kautsonik, who wanted to die standing up.<\/p>\n
The house hummed. The candles burned. Outside was the blue of winter, inside the gold of the wood. And above, over everything, the books \u2013 silent witnesses, decorative and yet full of threatening sentences.<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp swallowed.<\/p>\n
\u201cSo you are retired,\u201d he said, more to say something than out of interest.<\/p>\n
Kautsonik raised his eyebrows.<\/p>\n
\u201cRetired,\u201d he said, and the word sounded foreign in his mouth. \u201cI was told I am a pensioner. But then they rented me again. I am a renter, someone said jokingly. A rented pensioner.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp smiled.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat fits,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d said Kautsonik. \u201cEverything fits today, if you just name it correctly.\u201d<\/p>\n
He took a glass, refilled it, put it back down.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnother one?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp shook his head. His body \u2013 the honest one \u2013 didn\u2019t want any more. And his mind \u2013 the lying one \u2013 also didn\u2019t want too much.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d he said. \u201cNot too loud today.\u201d<\/p>\n
Kautsonik looked at him as if he had heard something that had not been said.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou were yesterday\u2026\u201d he began, and, polite as he was, left the sentence unfinished.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d said Hans Castorp.<\/p>\n
\u201cFireworks,\u201d said Kautsonik, and in the word there was a slight disgust that was not moral but based on experience. \u201cIt\u2019s beautiful. But it has something indecent. It is as if you were forcing the sky to behave.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp nodded.<\/p>\n
He took the wooden stick out of his pocket and laid it, without knowing why, on the table next to the plate. It looked there like a foreign body between glass and sugar.<\/p>\n
Kautsonik looked at it.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat is that?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cA pen,\u201d said Hans Castorp.<\/p>\n
Kautsonik laughed briefly.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou can\u2019t write with that,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp looked at him.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes, you can,\u201d he said. \u201cIf you are prepared for it to smudge.\u201d<\/p>\n
Kautsonik was silent for a moment. Then he nodded, very slowly, as if he were acknowledging something that he doesn\u2019t have to understand in order to respect it.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d he said finally. \u201cThat\u2019s how it is with names.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp felt his heart give a small, imperfect beat.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhich names?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n
Kautsonik raised his hand as if to ward off.<\/p>\n
\u201cDon\u2019t worry,\u201d he said. \u201cI am Guest Relations. Not Gestapo.\u201d<\/p>\n
He said it so dryly, so old-hotel-like, that it was funny \u2013 and in the background still sent a slight chill, because, if one is honest, in our time one never really knows where the line runs between relation and control.<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp lowered his gaze.<\/p>\n
\u201cJoy to him who comes,\u201d he said softly, more to himself than to Kautsonik.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d said Kautsonik. \u201cAnd joy to him who goes.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp raised the glass as if to toast \u2013 but he clinked against nothing.<\/p>\n
He drank one last sip, put the glass down and thought:<\/p>\n
There are people who go because they have to. There are people who stay because they can. And there are people who stay because they have no other way of knowing who they would be if they went.<\/p>\n
He put the wooden stick back in his pocket.<\/p>\n
Then he went, not fast, not slow, in that direction which in hotels is called \u201clobby\u201d and which in truth is nothing other than the stage on which you confirm yourself daily: I am here. I am someone. I arrive. I leave.<\/p>\n
And Hans Castorp, who always stayed, went \u2013 for the time being \u2013 only as far as the next staircase.<\/p>\n