The Magic Mountain (41 page)

Barely ninety seconds had passed before she shifted her position, looked around, stood up with a face that seemed to say she did not know what she was doing here or whom to ask—and began to speak. She asked something, directing her question to Joachim, even though he was still engrossed in his magazine and Hans Castorp was sitting there doing nothing at all. She formed the words with her mouth and there was a voice, too, coming from that white throat. It was the voice Hans Castorp already knew—not too low, pleasantly husky, and with a slight edge to it—knew both from a great distance and, once, from up close, when it had spoken words meant for him: “Glad to. But be sure to give it back to me after class.” Those words had been spoken in fluent German, however, and in a more definite tone; these now were halting and in broken German, a language to which she had no natural right, but was merely borrowing—just as Hans Castorp had heard her do a few times before, listening each time with a sense of superiority that was simultaneously cradled in humble delight.

One hand in the jacket of her wool sweater, the other at the back of her head, Frau Chauchat asked, “Please, for what time is your appointment?”

And Joachim, glancing quickly again at his cousin and clicking his heels in his seated position, replied, “Three-thirty.”

She now continued, “Mine is for three forty-five. What time is it? It is almost four. Someone just went in, am I correct?”

“Yes, two people,” Joachim responded. “They were ahead of us. The lab is behind schedule. It looks as if everything has been moved back a half hour.”

“That is unpleasant,” she said and nervously patted her hair.

“Rather!” Joachim replied. “We’ve been waiting almost a half hour now.”

The two of them conversed, and Hans Castorp listened as if in a dream. For Joachim to speak with Frau Chauchat was almost the same as if he himself were speaking with her—though, of course, totally different, too. Hans Castorp had been offended by Joachim’s “Rather!”—it had sounded so impertinent, or at least oddly indifferent under the circumstances. But the main thing was that Joachim spoke, that he was able to speak to her
at all
and perhaps was even showing off a little for his cousin with his impertinent “Rather!”—just as Hans Castorp had himself showed off for Joachim and Settembrini when he had been asked how long he intended to stay and had said, “Three weeks.” She had turned to address Joachim, despite the magazine he was holding up in front of his face—because he was a long-term resident, of course, and so she had known him longer, at least by sight. Although there was that other reason, too: a polite social conversation, an articulated exchange was quite appropriate for them, because no savage, profound, terrible secret existed between them. Had someone brown-eyed, with a ruby ring and orange-blossom perfume, been waiting here with them, it would have been up to him, Hans Castorp, to speak up and say, “Rather!”—to stand across from her so sovereign and correct. Although he would have said, “Certainly, mademoiselle, rather unpleasant,” and perhaps have pulled his handkerchief from his breast pocket with a little flourish and blown his nose. “Please, be patient. We’re in the same situation ourselves.” And Joachim would have been amazed at his easygoing manner—presumably, however, without seriously wanting to have changed places with him. No, given the situation, Hans Castorp was not jealous of Joachim, either, even though it was he who had spoken with Frau Chauchat. It did not bother him that she had turned to Joachim; she had taken the circumstances into account in doing so, thereby making it clear that she was aware of those circumstances. His heart was pounding.

After having been treated by Joachim so coolly—indeed, Hans Castorp sensed something of a gentle hostility in good Joachim’s attitude toward their fellow patient, a hostility that made him smile despite his own inner turmoil—“Clavdia” tried pacing the room; but there was not enough space for that, and so she, too, picked up a magazine from the table and returned to her round chair with its rudimentary arms. Hans Castorp sat there and stared at her, so long that he had to assume his grandfather’s chin-propping pose—which made him look absurdly like the old man. Frau Chauchat had again lightly crossed one leg over the other, and now the slender outline of the whole leg was visible under the blue fabric of her skirt. She was of only average height, which Hans Castorp found very agreeable, just the right size. But she had relatively long legs and was not at all broad in the hips. She was not leaning back now, but was bent forward, her forearms folded and resting on the thigh of the crossed leg, her back rounded and her shoulders hunched so that the bones of her neck stuck out—you could almost see her spinal column under the close-fitting sweater. Her breasts, which were not voluptuous and highset like Marusya’s, but the small breasts of a young girl, were pressed together from both sides. Suddenly Hans Castorp recalled that she was also here waiting to be X-rayed. The director was painting her, interpreting her external appearance with color and oils on canvas. But there in the twilight, he would turn rays on her that would expose the inside of her body. And at the thought, Hans Castorp turned his head to one side, and his face darkened with the shadow of respectability and assumed a look of discretion and propriety that seemed appropriate to such a vision.

The three of them did not have to wait long together. The staff inside was apparently in a hurry to catch up and had made short work of Sasha and his mother. Once again the technician in his white smock opened the door. Joachim stood up and tossed his magazine on the table; Hans Castorp followed him, although not without some apprehension, toward the door. Chivalrous scruples stirred within him, tempting him to address Frau Chauchat politely after all and offer to let her go first—perhaps even in French, if he could manage it. And he hastily searched his memory for vocabulary and syntax. But he did not know if such courtesies were usual here, if the schedule of appointments was not considered far more important than acts of chivalry. But Joachim would surely know, and it did not appear as if he were about to defer to the lady present, despite the troubled, earnest look Hans Castorp threw him. And so he followed his cousin past Frau Chauchat, who glanced up fleetingly from her hunched-over position, and they moved through the door to the laboratory.

He was so numbed by what he had just left behind, by the adventures of the last ten minutes, that he was unable immediately to realign his inner world as he crossed the threshold into the X-ray room. He saw nothing, or only general outlines, in the artificial twilight. He could still hear Frau Chauchat’s pleasant, opaque voice saying, “What time is it. . . . Someone just went in. . . . That is unpleasant . . .,” and the timbre of her voice caused a shudder of sweet excitement to pass up and down his back. He could see her knee outlined under her skirt, the back of her neck bent forward under the short, reddish-blond hairs that hung loose from the tucked-up braid, saw the neck bones sticking out—and the shudder passed over him once again.

He now saw Director Behrens standing in front of a cupboard or built-in cabinet, his back to them as they entered; he was inspecting a blackish plate that he held out at arm’s length against the dull light of the ceiling lamp. They passed him as they moved deeper into the room, and were themselves passed by the assistant, who was busy getting things ready for the procedure. There was a peculiar odor here—a kind of stale ozone smell in the air. The built-in unit jutted out between the two black-curtained windows, dividing the laboratory into unequal parts. You could make out clinical apparatus of various sorts: glassware, switch boxes, and tall vertical gauges, but also a camera-like box on a rolling stand and rows of glass photographic plates set along the walls. You couldn’t tell if you were in a photographer’s studio, a darkroom, or an inventor’s workshop and sorcerer’s laboratory.

Joachim began without further ado to strip to the waist. The assistant, a younger, squat, red-cheeked local in a white smock, instructed Hans Castorp to do the same—it would go fast, it would soon be his turn. While Hans Castorp was removing his vest, Behrens stepped out of the smaller recess and joined them in the larger part of the room.

“Hello there,” he said. “Why, it’s our Dioscuri boys—Castor and Pollux. Please, keep all screams of pain to a minimum. Be careful now, we’re going to look right through you both. I believe you’re afraid to reveal your insides to us, aren’t you, Castorp? You may set your mind at ease—our procedures are quite aesthetic. Look here—have you seen my private gallery?” And grabbing Hans Castorp by the arm, he pulled him over to the rows of dark glass plates; he flipped a switch. Illuminated now, the plates revealed pictures. Hans Castorp saw body parts: hands, feet, knees, thighs, calves, arms, pelvises. But the rounded living contours of these fragments of the human body were phantomlike and hazy; like a fog or a pale, uncertain aura, they enclosed a clear, detailed, and carefully defined core: the skeleton.

“Very interesting,” Hans Castorp said.

“Very interesting, indeed,” the director replied. “Useful visual aids for the instruction of the young. Illuminated anatomy, the triumph of the age. This is a female arm, you can tell by its dainty form, you see—the kind they hug you with on intimate occasions.” And he laughed, which set his upper lip and short-cropped moustache a little more askew. The pictures went dark. Hans Castorp turned away to watch the preparations for taking Joachim’s interior portrait.

These were under way in front of the built-in unit where the director had been standing as they came in. Joachim had sat down on a kind of cobbler’s bench, facing a panel, against which he now pressed his chest, hugging it at the same time with both arms. The assistant helped Joachim improve his position, pushing his shoulders farther forward and massaging his back in a series of kneading motions. He now moved behind the camera, and like a photographer, legs spread wide, bent forward to check the angle; he expressed his satisfaction, and stepping to one side he told Joachim to take a deep breath and hold it until everything was over. Joachim’s back expanded and stayed that way. At the same moment, the assistant flipped the appropriate switches. For two seconds the dreadful forces necessary to penetrate matter were let loose—a current of thousands of volts, one hundred thousand, Hans Castorp thought he had heard somewhere. Barely tamed for their purpose, these forces sought other outlets for their energy. Discharges exploded like gunshots. The gauges sizzled with blue light. Long sparks crackled along the wall. Somewhere a red light blinked, like a silent, threatening eye, and a vial behind Joachim’s back was filled with a green glow. Then everything calmed down; the spectacle of lights vanished, and Joachim expelled his breath with a sigh. It was over.

“Next culprit,” Behrens said, and poked Hans Castorp with his elbow. “Now don’t pretend you’re too tired. You’ll get a free copy, Castorp. Just think, you’ll be able to project the secrets of your bosom on the wall for your children and grandchildren.”

Joachim had stepped away; the technician was changing plates. Director Behrens personally showed the novice how he was to sit and hold his body. “Hug it,” he said. “Hug the panel. Imagine it’s something else if you like. And press your chest up tight, as if it meant sweet bliss. That’s it. Breathe deep! Hold it!” he commanded. “Now smile, please!”

Hans Castorp waited, his eyes blinking, his lungs full of air. The thunderstorm burst behind him, hissing, crackling, popping—and fell quiet again. The lens had peered inside him.

He dismounted, confused and dazed by what had happened to him, although he had not felt anything at all during the penetration.

“Well done,” the director said. “Now, let’s have a look for ourselves.” Joachim, being an old hand at this, had moved back toward the exit door to take up a position at an adjustable frame. Behind him stood the broad structure of the apparatus, a glass retort extruding tubes and half filled with liquid visible on its top rear shelf. In front of him, at chest-level, a framed screen dangled from a series of pulleys. To his left, a red-globed lamp sat amid a panel with a switch box. Seating himself astride a footstool placed in front of the dangling screen, the director turned on the lamp. The ceiling lamp went out, and only ruby light illuminated the scene. With one quick motion, the master extinguished that as well, and the laboratory was wrapped in darkest night.

“Our eyes have to adapt first,” the director’s voice said in the darkness. “We have to wait for our pupils to get nice and big, like a cat’s, in order for us to see what we want to see. I’m sure you can understand that we can’t see properly, just like that, with our normal daylight eyes. For our purposes here, we first have to ban any rousing daylight scenes from our minds.”

“Oh, but of course,” Hans Castorp said, standing now behind the director. He had closed his eyes, because in the pitch-black night it made no difference if they were open or shut. “We first have to let darkness wash over our eyes to see anything—that’s obvious. I even find it quite appropriate for us to gather together beforehand, in silent prayer, as it were. I’m standing here with my eyes closed and feeling pleasantly drowsy. But what’s that odor?”

“Oxygen,” the director said. “That’s oxygen that you scent in the air. A gaseous product of our little parlor thunderstorm, if you will. Eyes open!” he said. “Let the exorcism begin.” Hans Castorp obeyed at once.

They heard a switch thrown. A motor started, its angry hum mounting higher and higher, but suddenly reduced again to a drone at the flip of another switch. The floor vibrated steadily. The little red light, a long vertical slit, stared at them, silent and threatening. A spark crackled somewhere. The milky glow of a slowly brightening window, the pale rectangle of the fluorescent screen, emerged out of the darkness. And before it sat Director Behrens astride his footstool—thighs spread wide, fists propped against them, snub nose close to the screen that gave him a view into the organic interior of another human being.

“Can you see it, my lad?” he asked.

Hans Castorp bent down over his shoulder, but first looked up once more into the darkness, to where he assumed Joachim’s eyes were staring out, gentle and sad, just as on that day at his checkup. “Do you mind?” he asked.