Behind the counter, the world was different.<\/p>\n
The hall could still be heard, muffled: voices, rolling suitcases, the clinking of glasses, the hum of that technology which says: everything is under control. But here, behind the door, it smelled of paper and printer heat, of coffee, of cleaning agent; it smelled of work, not of experience.<\/p>\n
A narrow corridor led to a room that did not want to be a room, but a function: back office.<\/p>\n
There were desks there. Monitors. Folders. A shelf with key cards, neatly in rows, as if they were teeth. On the wall hung a schedule: arrivals, departures, VIP, complaints, wishes. The words were so neutral that it was precisely because of this that they had something cold.<\/p>\n
Kautsonik stepped inside as if entering a church.<\/p>\n
He did not walk faster, not slower; he walked as he always walked. And Hans Castorp felt that this man was more at home in this room than in any apartment.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis,\u201d said Kautsonik, making a small gesture over the monitors, \u201cis the heart.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp looked at the screens. On one was a list: names, room numbers, arrival time, departure time. On another: profiles. On a third: a system that looked like a calendar but did not manage time, it managed people.<\/p>\n
\u201cGuest Relations,\u201d said Hans Castorp, more to himself than to Kautsonik.<\/p>\n
Kautsonik nodded.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d he said. \u201cThat\u2019s what they call it. In the past they said: reception. That was more honest. Reception means: you come, I take you. Relations means: you are a relationship.\u201d<\/p>\n
He said \u201crelationship\u201d with an emphasis that revealed he did not believe the word.<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp stepped closer. His gaze fell on a folder that lay open on a table. On the cover, in large letters, it said: History.<\/p>\n