The Mistake Begins
It is a widespread misconception that misunderstandings arise from obscurity. In administration, the opposite is usually the case. A sentence does not become dangerous because it remains dark, but because it possesses enough brightness to be read in different rooms in different ways. What is wholly incomprehensible is filed away; what is all too clear is objected to. Between the two, however, lies that fertile region of official supposition in which procedures come into being without anyone being able to say who produced them. It was there, too, that the matter began which later, depending on the newspaper and the political situation, would be referred to as the Lance, the Initiative, the Affair or simply the Austrian Event.
The seminar did not end, as Leitner might perhaps have wished, with a discussion of writing, power and the narrative surplus of the administrative decree, but with the distribution of certificates of attendance. These had already been prepared before the event began, which had the pleasing consequence that neither the attendance nor the certificate depended on any inner connection between the two. The member of staff from Personnel Development distributed the sheets with that factual friendliness reserved in ministries for moments in which a procedure has been completed, though not necessarily succeeded. Some participants placed the certificates unread in their folders; others checked whether their titles had been set correctly. The budget rapporteur asked whether the training course would be entered into the system as having been undertaken for official reasons, which no one was able to answer, but which everyone considered probable.
Hohenegg had at first seen the paper with his draft lying in front of him again, but then, while Leitner, with an expression of tired emphasis, was once more explaining that institutions stabilised themselves not through truths but through forms, he had received a call. The Chief of Cabinet wanted to know whether Hohenegg could attend the eleven o’clock meeting on the question of protocol order at a reception for a delegation of the Alpine Convention. The meeting had already begun. Hohenegg agreed, although he was not responsible; especially in matters of protocol order, lack of responsibility was often the precondition for later innocence. He glanced at his watch, nodded to Leitner and hurried out, leaving his briefcase, the certificate of attendance and the seminar papers on the table. His assistant would collect them later. He left the room with the quiet relief of a man who believes he is leaving an imposition behind him, without suspecting that the imposition has merely changed form.
What remained was paper. In ministries, paper never truly remains behind. It waits. A sheet lying on a table is not there, as it would be in a private flat, a sign of negligence, but a possible beginning. The young woman from the Protocol Department who had read Hohenegg’s text during the exercise was called Mag. Klara Moser and possessed the rare gift of judging a formulation not only by its content, but by its rank. She was not ambitious in the ordinary sense: not loud, not restless, not constantly in search of visibility. Her form of ambition consisted in wanting to know how things really worked. This distinguished her from many who only wanted to know how things officially worked, and from still more who did not want to know how things worked at all, provided they were not impeded by them.
Moser had read Hohenegg’s draft twice. The first time she had smiled at the phrase tradition-related item of imperial regalia; the second time she had not. It was, she thought, one of those sentences that did not form by accident in an authority. Not because no one was capable of writing nonsense; many were perfectly capable of that. Rather because this nonsense had a direction. It possessed the quiet completeness of a matter that was not yet public and therefore had to be formulated as if it had already been coordinated with several offices. Moser knew from experience that truly dangerous texts rarely began on letterhead. They arrived as a draft, a note, an aide-mémoire or an internal preliminary review. Everything that later became important had first pretended to be intended merely for one’s own orientation.
As the participants left the room, Moser helped the member of staff from Personnel Development collect the exercise sheets, although no one had asked her to do so. It was a small gesture, but in administration small gestures could alter the direction of a day. When she came to Hohenegg’s draft, she hesitated. The others were being collected anonymously for the seminar evaluation, but beneath his draft stood the words Draft for internal preliminary review. She looked again at the phrase tradition-related item of imperial regalia. It was difficult to imagine that Hohenegg had invented such a formulation merely for an exercise. Perhaps he had brought something with him that was already under consideration elsewhere. In that case, he might still need the draft. She placed it with the papers beside his briefcase, where his assistant would find it together with the certificate of attendance. The phrase stayed with her a moment longer, but the matter itself appeared settled.
The resulting mistake received its first official form through a man who had none of the ideas later attributed to him. His name was Mag. Tobias Krenner, he was twenty-nine years old, employed in the Presidial Section and for six months had been Hohenegg’s temporary personal assistant, which meant that he was at once too close to power and too far from it to distinguish its origin. Krenner was conscientious without being pedantic, ambitious without being conspicuous, and possessed that modern civil-service gift of formulating emails in such a way that they demonstrated activity without generating responsibility. He had studied law, completed an Erasmus semester in Leiden and was convinced that administration was, at bottom, reformable, if only the right interfaces were once defined; a belief one was still permitted to hold at his age.
In the early afternoon Krenner found on Hohenegg’s desk a folder delivered through internal mail. Hohenegg was in a meeting, then in another meeting and afterwards in a telephone call which, according to the secretary, would certainly take longer. Krenner had been instructed to review the day’s documents and divide them into the three piles that structured the life of a Section Chief: immediately, later and never, the last pile, for reasons of institutional self-respect, naturally being called something else. The training documents should really have belonged in the third pile. Yet between the papers lay the Draft for internal preliminary review, and that expression was enough to turn paper into responsibility.
Krenner read the text standing up, at first merely out of courtesy to the official channel. Preparation of a symbolic gesture for the deepening of transatlantic relations. He did not turn the page, but began again from the beginning. Transfer of a tradition-related item of imperial regalia in adapted form. In view of the special historical connection between the Republic of Austria and the United States, a symbolic measure appeared suited to making transatlantic continuities visible. Krenner knew texts that looked like drafts because they were drafts, and texts that looked like drafts because no one later wanted to say that they had decided them. This text belonged, as far as he could judge at first glance, to a third category: it was too unusual to have been invented, and too cautious to be final.
The absence of a file number unsettled him. Not very much, however. Precisely those matters that had to be politically pre-clarified often moved for a while outside the actual document flow, like fish in a side arm of a river before they entered the great waters of documentation. Nor was the missing signature a counterargument. Hohenegg rarely signed drafts before he knew who besides himself had seen them. Krenner wondered whether he should ask. He looked towards the Section Chief’s door, behind which there was no one, then at the clock, then once more at the text. Asking was, in such situations, the most decent possibility, but not always the wisest. Whoever asked too early did not show vigilance, but ignorance of the preliminary field.
He took the sheet into his office, which was not really an office but a partitioned section of a larger room, the dividing wall remaining open at the top, as if the architecture wished to remind everyone that discretion in administration extended only as far as the ceiling. On his desk stood two monitors, a glass of water, a bowl of paper clips and a copy of the Federal Procurement Act, which he never used but kept visibly in place for reasons of professional credibility. Krenner sat down and read the draft a third time. The matter was absurd. But it was not impossible. That was the decisive difference. Austria had set up working groups for less plausible undertakings.
He opened a new email window and closed it again. Then he opened it once more. The recipient was at first unclear. Protocol? Culture? America Desk? Cabinet? Every choice implied an interpretation. Whoever chose Protocol declared the matter a question of procedure. Whoever chose Culture turned it into heritage. Whoever chose the America Desk turned it into diplomacy. Krenner decided, as many do at such moments, on a solution that was not right but attachable. He addressed the message to Mag. Miriam Stadler, who worked in the unit for bilateral relations with the United States, and copied in the Protocol Department, though only the functional address. This was not escalation. It was safeguarding.
He wrote the subject line: Preliminary clarification symbolic gesture / transatlantic context. Then he got stuck. Every formulation had to be such that it could later count not as an assertion, but as a forwarding. After a few minutes he typed: Dear Miriam, attached is a brief draft for internal preliminary review which was lying today with SC Hohenegg’s papers. May I ask for an entirely non-binding first assessment as to whether, from the USA/Bilateral perspective, there are any obvious concerns or possible points of attachment? For the time being, please only informally. He read the sentence. The phrase lying with was good. It asserted nothing about origin, only about location. Provisionality and informality were important as well. In administration, the informal was often the most solemn form of caution.
He scanned the sheet. The copier in the outer office made noises as it did so that recalled an animal resisting a medical examination. Krenner waited until the file appeared on his screen. It was slightly crooked. He considered scanning it again, but decided against it. A perfectly straight scan would have looked intentional. The crooked scan had the aura of provisionality, and provisionality was here the best protection. He attached the file, looked once more at the recipients, added his own second address in copy at the last moment, which served no purpose but conveyed a feeling of completeness, and pressed send.
The matter did not begin with this email. In truth it began earlier, perhaps with Leitner’s sentence about administration as fiction, perhaps with Hohenegg’s inclination towards well-sounding nonsense, perhaps with Moser’s decision to place a sheet in the wrong stack. But the email was the first moment in which the mistake left the solitude of paper and entered the condition of forwardability. Only from that point on could no one say with precision that it was nothing. Nothing is rarely forwarded in a ministry. What is forwarded is at least something, even if only a misunderstanding with a distribution list.
Miriam Stadler read the message at 14:38 between two other emails, one concerning Austria’s participation in a conference on digital resilience in Boston, the other an invitation from the Embassy of the United States to a reception that had for days been circulating under the misleading title Save the Date, although the date had long since been fixed. Stadler was forty, experienced enough not to be immediately surprised, and young enough not yet to consider surprise entirely unprofessional. She opened the attachment, read the first lines, leaned back and said softly, “Aha.” This Aha was neither affirmative nor dismissive, but that Austrian Aha with which one greets an object one has not ordered, but which may possibly already have been paid for.
Stadler knew that the United States reacted to symbolic gestures differently from European foreign ministries. What in Vienna counted as laying it on too thick might, under certain circumstances, be received in Washington as pleasingly clear. At the same time she knew that historical objects, especially those with religious or imperial overtones, possessed a momentum of their own that no diplomatic speaking note could fully capture. She searched the draft for the word lance and did not find it. That was reassuring on the one hand, suspicious on the other. Instead there stood emblem of rule. She read the phrase twice. It was not a good word for a matter that was meant to remain small. But it was an excellent word for a matter that was perhaps already larger than it appeared.
She did not call Krenner. That was the first important decision. A call might have created clarity, but clarity, when it came too early, was often destructive. Besides, on the phone Krenner might possibly have said that he himself knew nothing, and this not-knowing would then have become their shared knowledge. So long as she had only an email, she could act as though she were processing an enquiry. Instead, she wrote a reply even more cautious than Krenner’s message. Dear Tobias, thank you, very interesting. Difficult to assess without knowledge of the wider political context. From a bilateral point of view, it would in principle need to be examined whether such a gesture could be understood as a culturally and historically framed gift. Protocol and museum-related questions would in any case need to be clarified in advance. After brief hesitation she copied in a colleague from the Cultural Affairs unit and added: Perhaps Clemens can provide an initial assessment of the historical framework.
Clemens was Dr. Clemens Pacher, responsible in the Cultural Affairs unit for those matters that were either too old or too delicate to be left to normal diplomatic routines. He had studied art history, later completed the Administrative Academy and acquired a form of polite scepticism often mistaken in meetings for competence. When Stadler’s email arrived, he was preparing a position paper on the question of whether an Austrian Baroque ensemble in Ohio could count as an authentic communication of Austrian culture, despite having been built by a Texan who had never been to Austria. Pacher opened the attachment and read it with that professional slowness with which art historians read labels in exhibitions they have inwardly already rejected.
He did not reply at once. First, out of reflex, he searched the internal drive for spear, lance, imperial regalia, treasury and gift. The hits were numerous and almost all useless. There was an old enquiry about a school tour in the Imperial Treasury, a parliamentary question on the conservation of historical metal objects and a paper on the symbolic dimension of Austrian presence at world exhibitions. Pacher read none of them in full. Then he opened the website of the Imperial Treasury, looked at the image of the Holy Lance and thought that there were objects which, even as replicas, were not innocent. That was precisely what made them politically attractive.
His reply read: Dear Miriam, from a cultural-historical point of view, extreme sensitivity would be indicated in the case of imperial regalia. The transfer of an original is, of course, out of the question. A replica would be theoretically conceivable, but would have to be clearly framed as a contemporary reproduction. Please clarify whether the Holy Lance is in fact being considered, or a more general motif. He could have stopped there. But, like many people seeking to limit a matter, he added something that expanded it: For a first technical feasibility assessment, it might be possible, if appropriate, to make non-binding soundings with relevant metal conservators or art foundries. Pacher clicked send and immediately had the feeling he had made a mistake. Not because he had written anything false, but because he had written something possible.
Krenner received the reply during a meeting in which Hohenegg, two department heads and a representative of the Federal Chancellery were arguing about the order of welcoming remarks. The discussion had reached that point at which no one was still fighting over the content, but only trying to prevent an earlier sentence from being interpreted to their disadvantage. Krenner stood at the back by the wall and read on his phone. In principle to be examined. Theoretically conceivable. Non-binding soundings. These words were not approval. But they were not rejection either. In an administration that had learned to erect entire landscapes between yes and no, that was enough to recognise a path.
After the meeting he could have informed Hohenegg. It would even have been sensible. But Hohenegg was irritated because the representative of the Federal Chancellery had defended the order of welcoming remarks by referring to international visibility, an expression Hohenegg only liked when he used it himself. In addition, the Section Chief had said while leaving: “Krenner, please set the open points in motion today.” What he had probably meant were the open points from the meeting. But the sentence was general enough to carry other things as well. Krenner did not take it as an instruction. He took it as protection.
He therefore wrote back to Pacher and asked whether he knew of a suitable contact for a non-binding technical feasibility assessment. Pacher, who was just about to go into a meeting and had no desire to continue owning the matter, replied more tersely than was wise: Mühlbacher & Son made replicas for the exhibition in Graz at the time. Possibly enquire there. Without commitment, please. Krenner copied the name into a search engine and found a workshop in Lower Austria whose website looked as if it had been created at a time when websites were still considered progress. Art casting, restoration, sacred objects, custom work. That sounded to him sufficiently relevant and sufficiently unobtrusive.
At 17:12 Krenner called them. He had first considered writing an email, but then decided on the telephone, because telephone preliminary enquiries were harder to misunderstand later, as he mistakenly assumed. A woman answered whose voice sounded as though she had spent much of her life reassuring people who only after placing an order had understood how expensive metal was. Krenner introduced himself, not with his full title, but with enough authority to be taken seriously. He said the matter concerned a purely non-binding preliminary clarification in connection with a possible representative replica of a historical object. The woman did not ask whether this was private or business. At the word representative, that question had settled itself.
After a short wait he was connected to Mr. Mühlbacher. Mühlbacher listened in silence while Krenner explained that they were internally examining the basic technical feasibility of a reproduction, presumably in precious-metal appearance, possibly of higher quality, in any case without current commissioning, without prejudice and without temporal specification. Mühlbacher said nothing for a long time. Then he asked: “How big?” Krenner was not prepared for this question. Administration thought in responsibilities, not in centimetres. He said that this would still have to be clarified. Mühlbacher asked: “Inside or outside?” Krenner did not understand. “Exhibition or presentation?” Mühlbacher clarified. Krenner looked at the draft and said: “More likely presentation.” Again Mühlbacher was silent. Then he said: “Then it mustn’t be too heavy.”
Krenner noted this sentence down. He also noted that solid gold in the desired size was technically possible but questionable for reasons of cost and handling; that a gilded silver or bronze execution would be more realistic; that a representative replica would require several weeks’ lead time depending on the degree of detail; and that, if it was a question of the Holy Lance, one would in any case need a good model. Mühlbacher pronounced the words Holy Lance without any pathos, as if it were a candlestick fitting that happened to have a complicated history.
Krenner thanked him several times and emphasised that this was a non-binding preliminary clarification. Mühlbacher said: “They all say that at the beginning.” Krenner laughed, because he thought it was a joke. Mühlbacher did not laugh. After the call Krenner sat still for a moment in front of his screen. The day had taken on a peculiar shape. In the morning there had been a seminar draft; in the afternoon a cultural-historical assessment; in the early evening a technical feasibility note. None of it was a decision. But taken together, the parts formed something dangerously similar to a procedure.
He wrote a note for the file, because it seemed less risky to document the matter than to keep it only in memory. The note began with the words: Following an internal preliminary review, an initial technical feasibility assessment was obtained on a non-binding basis and without prejudice. That was not a lie. It was merely true in an order that would later be difficult to untangle. Krenner listed the information provided by the art foundry, avoided the word Trump and instead wrote recipient at the highest level. He did not know why he did this. Perhaps because names produced reality. Perhaps because he did not yet wish to burden reality unnecessarily.
When he printed the note, it was already dark outside. Office lights were reflected in the windows of the opposite wing, and in the courtyard the old bicycle could now be recognised only as a dark line against the railing. Krenner placed the printout in a red routing folder. Red did not mean urgent, but it was clear enough not to be overlooked. On the cover he stuck a yellow note: SC Hohenegg — for information / any further action as appropriate. Then he paused and replaced further with possible. Further action sounded as if something were already under way. Possible action left open the possibility that nothing needed to happen. It was, he thought, the more honest formulation. In truth, it was the more dangerous one.
He placed the folder on Hohenegg’s desk, not right on top, but not underneath either. Exactly in that spot where important things lay when one did not want them to look too important. Then he switched off the light in his office and left. In the corridor he met Moser, who was still carrying a folder under her arm. She asked whether the seminar was actually going to be evaluated. Krenner said presumably. Moser nodded. For a moment she seemed about to say something. Then she did not. In ministries most catastrophes are made possible not by false statements, but by correct sentences no one says.
The next morning Hohenegg would not open the red folder at first, because an urgent meeting about a press enquiry concerning a state secretary’s foreign trip intervened. Afterwards the outer office would place it, together with other documents, in a weekly pile to be reviewed on Friday. On Friday Hohenegg would be in Brussels. In his absence Krenner, who believed he was relieving the Section Chief, would send Stadler a brief reminder. Stadler would reply out of courtesy. Pacher would, out of caution, bring in a second person. And in the workshop of Mühlbacher & Son, Mr. Mühlbacher would mention over dinner that some ministry or other had called about a lance, perhaps for the Americans, perhaps not. His wife would ask whether it was well paid. Mühlbacher would say: “If they know what they want.” Then they would both laugh, because they did not yet suspect that this was precisely the one condition no one would be able to fulfil.