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\u2019s name, here one receives keys, here one is kindly examined, here one is, if one is strict, registered.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
\u201cGood morning, sir,\u201d said Kautsonik.<\/p>\n
\u201cGood morning,\u201d answered Hans Castorp.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
\u201cTell me,\u201d he began, \u201cwhere do I find the doctor?\u201d<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhich doctor?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe\u2026\u201d Hans Castorp paused briefly, as if he could not get used to the letters. \u201c\u2026AuDHS.\u201d<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe doctor,\u201d he said, and in the form of address there lay that old-fashioned, pleasantly unmodern dignity that Kautsonik gave to all offices, \u201cis in the house. I will have him fetched.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cFetched?\u201d asked Hans Castorp.<\/p>\n
Kautsonik smiled briefly.<\/p>\n
\u201cEverything is fetched here,\u201d he said. \u201cTowels. Tea. Doctors.\u201d<\/p>\n
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: \u201cThe doctor to reception, please.\u201d<\/p>\n
Then he returned to Hans Castorp, as if he had just ordered a bottle of water.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe is coming,\u201d he said. \u201cThe doctor always comes.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp thought that in a house of longevity this could quite well be understood as a threat.<\/p>\n
\u201cThank you,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
Kautsonik nodded.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou are\u2026\u201d He left the sentence open, as he knew how. Hotel language is an art of suggestion.<\/p>\n
\u201cHelpless,\u201d said Hans Castorp, and he was annoyed by the word because it was too honest.<\/p>\n
Kautsonik looked at him, and in his gaze there was for a moment something that was not official.<\/p>\n
\u201cHelplessness,\u201d he said dryly, \u201cis also a program. It just doesn\u2019t appear in the brochure.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp smiled. It was a polite smile. And a little disagreeable.<\/p>\n