In the evening, esteemed reader, dear reader, the air in the room was so calm that the calm itself seemed like an order. Hans Castorp did, almost automatically, the things he now called \u201crituals\u201d, because in such establishments everything you repeat is called rituals so that it doesn\u2019t sound like compulsion.<\/p>\n
He stepped onto the scale, saw a number that neither frightened nor reassured him, because it was only a number and yet gave him the feeling of passing judgment on him. He drank water. He put the handheld device on the table and looked at it as if it were an animal that must not be provoked.<\/p>\n
Then he fetched the blood pressure cuff.<\/p>\n
He sat down on the bed, wrapped the band around his arm, pressed the button. The machine hummed, tightened, released \u2013 and in this small mechanical tightening and releasing lay an entire modern pedagogy: pressure, relief, pressure, relief.<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp looked at the readings.<\/p>\n
Systole: unremarkable.<\/p>\n
Diastole: 82.<\/p>\n
\u201cHigh normal,\u201d he thought.<\/p>\n
It was as if someone were speaking the expression in his head, quite matter-of-factly, quite kindly. Hans Castorp noted the value in his little book \u2013 yes, he had now set up a book for it; one quickly becomes a note-taker when one lives in a program \u2013 and put the pen away.<\/p>\n
Then he sat there and did not know what he was supposed to do now. For in the old world, after the measurement came the end. One had taken the temperature, one had drawn the curve, one had straightened the blanket, and the night came as it wished.<\/p>\n
In the new world, however, the measurement is often only the beginning.<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp exhaled and told himself: Not today.<\/p>\n
He remembered AuDHS\u2019s sentence: The devices at rest.<\/p>\n
He did not put the handheld device away \u2013 one does not put such a thing away, it is always lying somewhere \u2013 but he turned it over so that the display faced downward, as if one could stop light through shame.<\/p>\n
Then there was a knock.<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp flinched, because knocking at night always has something official about it, even in a hotel that calls itself wellness.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes?\u201d he called.<\/p>\n
The door opened, and Mr. Kautsonik stood there.<\/p>\n
He wore, as always, that correct jacket that made him seem like a figure of order. In his hand he held a package, flat, elongated, wrapped in paper, and under his arm a roll, the way one carries a blanket.<\/p>\n
\u201cSir,\u201d he said, and his voice was quiet, as if respecting the night, \u201ca gift.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp stared at him.<\/p>\n
\u201cA gift?\u201d he repeated.<\/p>\n
Kautsonik nodded.<\/p>\n
\u201cFrom the doctor,\u201d he said. \u201cFrom Dr. AuDHS.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp felt the word \u201cfakir\u201d step into his head before he had even seen the package.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis is\u2026?\u201d he began.<\/p>\n
Kautsonik raised his eyebrows, and in his gaze lay that dry cheerfulness he possesses when the establishment becomes particularly modern.<\/p>\n
\u201cPointy,\u201d he said. \u201cVery\u2026 pointy.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp took the package. It was lighter than he had thought. Light is often dangerous in such cases.<\/p>\n
Kautsonik handed him the roll.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd this to go with it,\u201d he said. \u201cFor the neck.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp held both as if he had just adopted an animal.<\/p>\n
\u201cThank you,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
Kautsonik nodded.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe doctor said,\u201d he said, and you could hear that he was quoting a sentence he himself did not quite understand but respected, \u201cit is psychosomatic.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp smiled. Kautsonik said \u201cpsychosomatic\u201d like a foreign word that has suddenly become a service in a hotel.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d said Hans Castorp. \u201cPsychosomatic.\u201d<\/p>\n
Kautsonik took a step back, but remained standing in the doorway for a moment, as if, as Guest Relations Manager, he wanted to assess the guest\u2019s emotional state.<\/p>\n
\u201cSleep well,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
It was, esteemed reader, dear reader, one of those sentences you hear a thousand times and which, if you cannot sleep, nonetheless feel like a small spite. Hans Castorp nodded politely.<\/p>\n
\u201cI will\u2026 try,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
Kautsonik smiled briefly.<\/p>\n
\u201cTry,\u201d he said. \u201cThat is a program word here.\u201d<\/p>\n
Then he left.<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp stood with the package in his hand and thought: They even deliver the spikes to me.<\/p>\n
He sat down and unpacked it.<\/p>\n
What emerged was a mat made of a material that smelled of plastic and new goods, and on this mat stood small, even spikes, like a miniature mountain range. Next to it the neck roll, also with such spikes, only rounder, as if it were a friendlier form of unfriendliness.<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp looked at the mat and felt a touch of comedy. A person who lives in a hotel that sells longevity now lies down on plastic spikes in order to sleep. That is so modern that it already seems archaic again.<\/p>\n
He laid the mat on the carpet, hesitated, and then slowly sat down on it, first with his hands, then with his back, as if he were stepping into cold water.<\/p>\n
The spikes pressed. Not cutting, not bloody, but unmistakable. The body, that honest one, reported: There is something.<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp felt his breathing become shallower and then, after a few moments, deeper. It was as if the body were forced to concentrate on something concrete instead of the highway below.<\/p>\n
\u201cPsychosomatic,\u201d he thought.<\/p>\n
He placed the neck roll under his neck.<\/p>\n
The pressure was at first unpleasant, then strangely\u2026 ordering. Not pleasant in the feel-good sense, but pleasant like a tightened belt that says: You are here. You are in the body. Not in the past.<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp closed his eyes.<\/p>\n
He waited.<\/p>\n
And while he waited, he noticed that this time the waiting did not immediately switch on the highway. There were still vehicles, yes. But they drove farther away. Or he heard them less.<\/p>\n
At some point he got up \u2013 not because he had had enough, but because the body, even when you calm it, has its limits \u2013 and lay down in bed.<\/p>\n
The ring was on his finger. The handheld device lay upside down. The night was there like a room you do not want to enter because you know yourself too well in it.<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp exhaled.<\/p>\n
And then he remembered the chameleon.<\/p>\n
He began to tell himself the story.<\/p>\n
Not aloud. Not like a reader. But the way you speak inwardly when you are alone and yet do not want to be alone.<\/p>\n
The sentences at first still came out angular. They came from will. Then, after a few moments, they became softer. And the narrator, esteemed reader, dear reader, will now, if you permit, become a little quieter \u2013 not because he is tired, but because tiredness can be contagious.<\/p>\n