In the night \u2013 for of course, dear reader, dear sir or madam, in a contemporary novel the night must return, so that one feels that the day is not everything \u2013 Hans Castorp woke up. He did not know why. Perhaps the ring had measured something with a vibrating motion; perhaps his body, the honest one, simply had the need to make sure that it was still dark.<\/p>\n
He got up, walked quietly through the suite, drank a glass of water. The water tasted of nothing, and precisely that was calming. He looked at the table on which the logbook lay, with the heading \u201cThe five resolutions\u201d and the white beneath it. He took the little wooden stick, held it in his hand, and put it back down. Writing seemed to him, on this night, too loud.<\/p>\n
He put on a bathrobe \u2013 the bathrobe as the uniform of truth \u2013 and went out.<\/p>\n
The corridors were quiet. The carpets swallowed footsteps. One heard only, in the distance, the hum of the technology, that soothing hum that says: Everything is under control.<\/p>\n
He went down the stairs.<\/p>\n
The lobby was darker than during the day, but not dark. In houses like these, darkness is dimmed, not allowed. The light under the chandelier was still burning, warm and golden, as if it did not want to sleep. The lilies stood there like female guardians.<\/p>\n
And behind the counter stood Kautsonik.<\/p>\n
He stood.<\/p>\n
He stood as if he had never stopped standing. He was no longer wearing a jacket. His shirt was open at the collar. His shoulders, without the formal armor, looked narrower. He was holding on to the counter with one hand, not obviously, but in such a way that Hans Castorp saw it. And in his face there was something that had not been there during the day: a gray tone, a touch of pain that was not dramatic, but simple.<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp stopped.<\/p>\n
\u201cKautsonik,\u201d he said softly.<\/p>\n
Kautsonik raised his gaze. He did not smile. But he nodded.<\/p>\n
\u201cSir,\u201d he said, and the politeness was like a reflex, \u201cis awake.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d said Hans Castorp. \u201cAnd you\u2026 are awake too.\u201d<\/p>\n
Kautsonik looked at the clock. Not at a watch on his wrist \u2013 he wore none. He wore no measurement. He looked at a clock on the wall, old-fashioned, analog, as if it had refused to become digital.<\/p>\n
\u201cI am always awake,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp stepped closer.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy are you standing?\u201d, he asked, and he knew that the question was impolite.<\/p>\n
Kautsonik shrugged his shoulders. The movement was small, but it cost him something.<\/p>\n
\u201cBecause I can,\u201d he said. \u201cStill.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp was silent. He saw how Kautsonik, very briefly, lifted his hand from the counter and then put it back down, as if the hand had been frightened by its own weakness.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou could sit down,\u201d said Hans Castorp.<\/p>\n
Kautsonik shook his head.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d he said. \u201cIf I sit down, I won\u2019t get up again. That is\u2026\u201d He searched for the word. \u201c\u2026symbolism, yes. But it is also physiology. The body learns quickly. One should not give it bad lessons.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp thought of Zieser: \u201cFirst things first, second things never.\u201d He thought: Kautsonik has his own resolutions.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou are ill?\u201d, he asked softly.<\/p>\n
Kautsonik laughed briefly. It was a dry laugh that almost hurt.<\/p>\n
\u201cIll,\u201d he said. \u201cHere? In a house that has made a program out of illness? No, sir. I am not ill. I am\u2026\u201d He paused. \u201c\u2026old. And being old is, as Dr. Porsche would say, not a condition but a task.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp swallowed.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd your task is\u2026 to stand,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
Kautsonik nodded.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d he said. \u201cMy task is to hold the threshold. Until it holds me.\u201d<\/p>\n