History. The word here did not sound like story, but like file.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou keep\u2026 histories?\u201d, asked Hans Castorp.<\/p>\n
Kautsonik smiled dryly.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe keep everything,\u201d he said. \u201cWe keep lists. We keep names. We keep wishes. We keep complaints. We keep, if necessary, even tears.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp swallowed. He thought of Dr. Porsche, who billed time expenditure. Here, time expenditure was a field.<\/p>\n
Kautsonik did not sit down. He stood. In the back office there were chairs, yes, but Kautsonik stood as if sitting were a betrayal.<\/p>\n
\u201cSir,\u201d he said, \u201cis curious. That is rare.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp smiled. Curiosity. A word that had always been a form of escape for him.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2026\u201d, he began.<\/p>\n
Kautsonik raised his hand again.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou do not have to explain yourself, sir,\u201d he said. \u201cI explain. That is what I am here for. Guest Relations. Relationship maintenance. And, to be honest: trace maintenance.\u201d<\/p>\n
He pulled a folder from the shelf. It was old. Leather, worn, with a rubber band that looked too modern to fit. Kautsonik laid it on the table and opened it.<\/p>\n
Inside were pages, handwritten, neat, in ink. Names. Dates. Room numbers. Small notes in the margin.<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp leaned forward.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis is\u2026\u201d, he said.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis was,\u201d said Kautsonik. \u201cEarlier. When people still believed that writing is private. Today we no longer write. Today we type. And the typing,\u201d he tapped his finger on the monitor, \u201cno longer goes away.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp thought of the ring. Of the steps. Of the nights. Of the blank line in the logbook.<\/p>\n
\u201cThose who write, remain,\u201d he said softly, and the sentence sounded different here than with Zieser. It did not sound like training, but like arrest.<\/p>\n
Kautsonik looked at him.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d he said. \u201cAnd those who write are also found when someone wants to search.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp felt a slight film of sweat on his skin.<\/p>\n
Kautsonik opened a page. Hans saw names. He saw handwriting that was different, and he suddenly felt that every handwriting is a body. Some were sweeping, some petty, some shaky. One was so fine that it almost wanted to disappear.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis,\u201d said Kautsonik, pointing to a shaky script, \u201cwas a lady. She came every year. She was friendly. She always said: \u2018I so like being here.\u2019 And every year she smelled a little more like hospital.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp was silent.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe left,\u201d said Kautsonik. \u201cNot from the house. From the world. And I have her name here.\u201d He tapped on the paper. \u201cThat is all that remains.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp thought: That is Guest Relations. Relationship to disappearance.<\/p>\n
Kautsonik closed the folder again, slowly, as if he were laying a person to rest.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd now,\u201d he said, and his voice became more matter-of-fact again, \u201clook at this.\u201d<\/p>\n
He turned a monitor so that Hans Castorp could see it.<\/p>\n
A profile appeared on the screen. At the top was a name. Below: room, length of stay, status. Below: preferences.<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp looked.<\/p>\n
He saw his own profile.<\/p>\n
He saw \u2013 and that was the sting \u2013 not his life, but his categories. He saw that he had been put on a list, without ill will.<\/p>\n
Preference: quiet.<\/p>\n
Aversion: fireworks.<\/p>\n
Program: Dr. Porsche.<\/p>\n
Activity: GYMcube, 3s i5.<\/p>\n
Nutrition: DefaultOptimum (Deload\/Refeed).<\/p>\n
Note: \u201cNo calls after 9 pm, please.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp stared at the sentence.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo calls after 9 pm, please.\u201d<\/p>\n
He had never said that. Or had he? Maybe he had once, casually, as if it had no meaning. Maybe he had said it because he had to measure his diastole at night, because he wanted to calm his thought highway, because, in truth, he was afraid of ringing devices. And now it stood there as if it were a character trait.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis is\u2026\u201d, he began.<\/p>\n
\u201cService,\u201d said Kautsonik.<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp laughed briefly. It was not a cheerful laugh.<\/p>\n
\u201cService,\u201d he repeated.<\/p>\n
Kautsonik nodded.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d he said. \u201cOne remembers things. That is polite. And it is control. Both at once.\u201d<\/p>\n
He looked at Hans Castorp, and in this look there was no threat, but something that was almost pity: the realization that the guest had just seen himself as a data set.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou, sir,\u201d said Kautsonik, \u201care afraid of visibility.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp felt the sentence drop into his stomach.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2026\u201d, he said.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d said Kautsonik calmly. \u201cYou do not have to. I see that. I see that because I have been seeing for decades. I see when someone does not want to be photographed. I see when someone does not want an invoice by e-mail. I see when someone does not want to hear their name.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp swallowed.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd what do you do?\u201d, he asked.<\/p>\n
Kautsonik smiled again, dryly.<\/p>\n
\u201cI do what I always do,\u201d he said. \u201cI guard the threshold. I let through what may pass through. And I hold back what should be held back. I am a porter. Guest Relations is only\u2026\u201d He shrugged. \u201c\u2026the modern mask.\u201d<\/p>\n
Mask.<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp thought of Venice without knowing why. Mask. Rejuvenation. Decay. Water. Time.<\/p>\n