The Silent Bureaucracy

There are matters one can hear coming into being because they make noise, tear open files, violate responsibilities and enter buildings with the insolence of an event. And there are matters that come into being precisely because one does not hear them. They do not move against the apparatus, but with it; they do not take doors, but distribution lists; they do not press, but request a brief assessment; they demand nothing, but ask that something be noted as appropriate. The truly silent bureaucracy is not inactive. It is merely too polite to pass off its activity as a decision. Therein lay its strength and, as would soon become apparent, also its creative malice.

On Friday morning Hohenegg was in Brussels, which produced for the department the agreeable condition that everyone referred matters to his return while at the same time acting as though certain things had to be prepared by then. In Vienna, Brussels had the dual function of being an actual city and an excuse of higher rank. If someone was in Brussels, one could not disturb him; if something had come from Brussels, one had to take it seriously. Hohenegg himself was attending a meeting whose subject had been described in the invitation as European coordination of cultural-political visibility formats. He had known before he arrived that the expression visibility format had only been invented because no one any longer had the courage to say event.

Meanwhile, in his outer office, the red folder lay waiting. It was not lying there alone, which at first deprived it of any drama. Beside it were an enquiry concerning the correct flag arrangement for a visit from Slovenia, a draft reply to a parliamentary question on representational expenditure, three invitations no one wished to accept but no one was permitted to decline, and a thin file concerning a missing standing table which had not been found after a reception and whose fate had for two months bound more administrative energy than its purchase had cost. Frau Schindler, Hohenegg’s secretary, had marked the folder with a pencil stroke. In the outer office, a pencil stroke was not a judgement, but a reminder that a judgement might later become necessary.

Krenner came by at around half past nine to ask whether the Section Chief had been in touch from Brussels. Frau Schindler looked at him over the rim of her reading glasses in that way by which secretaries make clear to young staff members that knowledge is not to be confused with information. “He said only if it’s on fire.” Krenner involuntarily glanced towards the red folder. “It isn’t on fire,” he said. That was true. It was also not entirely sufficient. Frau Schindler followed his gaze. “Then it’s lying in the right place.” Krenner nodded. He could have left. Instead, he asked whether one ought not at least to prepare a short overview for Hohenegg’s return. Frau Schindler said that would be sensible, and it was precisely this word that moved the matter forward. In ministries, reason was often not the cause of an action, but the retrospective name for a path from which no one wished to turn back.

Krenner returned to his desk and opened the last message from Miriam Stadler. Stadler worked in the America unit, America in the Ministry being less a continent than a condition: large, friendly, unpredictable and always capable of placing even the smallest Austrian gesture in a context that one understood only when it was too late. Stadler had replied only briefly to Krenner’s first sounding the evening before, because she had been working on a note concerning a state secretary’s attendance at an Independence Day reception. Now her reply lay before him: From a bilateral perspective, early protocol and communication framing would be advisable before any symbolically charged gesture. Please indicate whether political pre-clarification has already taken place or is desired. Krenner read the sentence twice. It contained no approval, no rejection, no question that one could simply answer. It contained, in other words, the perfect continuation.

He began a reply, deleted it, began again and finally wrote: Dear Miriam, thank you for the assessment. Political pre-clarification not currently completed; at this stage the matter concerns keeping possible options under review and clarifying cultural-historical as well as technical framework conditions. Communication framing should, in my view, be considered alongside this, without prejudicing the matter. He read the text and was satisfied. He had asserted nothing. But he had not withdrawn anything either. He particularly liked the phrase considered alongside. It was one of those phrases with which one opens a door without passing through it. Then he attached Mühlbacher’s technical note and Pacher’s cultural-historical reply, because attachments in administration create the impression that something already has a history. He pressed send and felt relieved for a moment.

Stadler received the message while she was trying to replace the phrase close transatlantic exchange in a text with constructive dialogue without making the sentence any less empty. She opened the attachment and, after only a few lines, realised that a matter had now entered that dangerous intermediate state in which it was too specific to be ignored and too unclear to be shown to someone who might afterwards say that one ought to have known better. Stadler was not timid. In the America unit she had merely arrived early at the insight that Austrian symbolism in Washington was either not noticed at all or completely misunderstood, the second possibility becoming more likely the more one tried to prevent it.

She stood up and closed the door of her office, which rarely happened and was therefore immediately noticed in the neighbouring cubicle, and read the documents again. Tradition-related item of imperial regalia. Representative replica. Recipient at the highest level. Technical feasibility assessment. Holy Lance. Solid gold not recommended for handling reasons. Stadler paused at this last sentence. She might have laughed, but did not, because she was alone, and laughter without an audience in offices easily appears pathological.

Stadler could now have called Krenner. She did not. Telephone calls were dangerous because they produced clarity before one knew whether one would need it. Instead, she wrote a note to herself, an undervalued form of self-exoneration in public authorities. In it she recorded that this appeared to be a symbolic initiative currently under examination, the political scope of which could not be conclusively assessed. She placed a question mark after appeared, deleted it again and wrote instead it is understood that. It is understood that was a magnificent expression because it did not say by whom something had been understood, nor whether the person understood had been listening.

Meanwhile Pacher, in the Cultural Affairs unit, had recognised his mistake: not that he had named Mühlbacher, but that he had believed a matter could be kept in the world by adding the word non-binding. In administration, non-binding by no means meant without consequences. It only meant that the consequences could later not easily be attributed to the first sentence. He therefore resolved to bring in a second person, which in institutions serves not only knowledge but above all the dilution of responsibility. The second person was Dr. Barbara Riegler, an art historian seconded to a federal museum who, in matters concerning the Imperial Treasury, possessed that calm impenetrability produced by years of dealing with things older than all current superiors.

Pacher wrote her an email with the subject line Non-binding cultural-historical query, which immediately made Riegler suspicious. Non-binding queries were rarely non-binding and almost never merely queries. She opened the attachment nonetheless, because she had seen the word imperial regalia. After reading it, she sat motionless before the screen for several minutes. Then she stood up, went to the window and looked out at the museum courtyard, where tourists were waiting as if they had a right to history opening punctually. Riegler was no romantic. She knew that the holier objects became, the more administration they required. Relics were not the opposite of inventories; they were their highest intensification.

Her reply was cautious, but not short. Dear Dr. Pacher, she wrote, the Holy Lance is a highly symbolically charged object with a complex reception history in imperial, sacred and political terms. A reproduction would not be excluded in principle from a conservation perspective, but would have to be clearly identified as a contemporary replica and carefully framed in all accompanying communication. Further questions to be examined would include the image basis, reproduction permissions, material symbolism and the context of use. She paused. Then, against her better judgement, she added: In the event of a presentation to a foreign personality, early coordination with Protocol and, where appropriate, foreign-policy offices would be advisable. She read the sentence, found it banal and reassuring, and overlooked the fact that banal, reassuring sentences rarely reassure in ministries. They usually create work.

Pacher forwarded the reply to Krenner, not without placing a sentence of his own above it: From a technical perspective, additional clarifications are recommended, particularly regarding framing. Framing was a term that reassured everyone, because it pretended that the problem did not lie in the thing itself, but only in what one said around it. Krenner printed the message and placed it with the red folder. Then he opened the electronic file overview and hesitated. The matter still had no file number. Until now, that had protected it. Now, precisely that fact began to unsettle him. A matter without a file number could at any time be considered coincidence. A matter with a file number, by contrast, possessed the dignity of an error that had arrived in the system.

He called Frau Schindler and asked whether a technical number could be assigned for provisional record-keeping. Frau Schindler was silent for a moment. “Technical numbers aren’t assigned. They arise.” Krenner knew what she meant. There were things in administration that officially no one created and that nevertheless one day were present. “It’s only for filing,” he said. “Then file it.” “But where?” “Where you can find it again.” This was not information, but a life lesson. Krenner thanked her and hung up. Then he did what young officials do when they do not understand an older sentence: he transformed it into structure.

At 11:42 he created a folder on the shared drive: TRANSATL_SYMBOLISM. He found the name too broad, deleted it, wrote USA_REPRESENTATION, deleted that as well and finally settled on 2026_International_Visibility. That was inconspicuous enough to last. Within it he created subfolders: 01_Draft, 02_CulturalHistorical, 03_Technical, 04_Protocol. He named a fifth folder Communication, but after brief hesitation changed it to AccompanyingCommunication. Communication sounded like the public. Accompanying communication sounded like something one could control. Then he saved the documents collected so far there. With that, the matter had acquired a home.

Around midday an email arrived from Mühlbacher & Son. It was addressed to Krenner, with Pacher in copy, because Krenner had mentioned Pacher’s name during the phone call and Mühlbacher’s daughter, who had been handling correspondence for several years, considered copies a form of politeness which also shortened later disputes. Dear Mag. Krenner, it read, with reference to our telephone conversation yesterday, we hereby send you, without obligation, initial technical considerations regarding the realisation of a replica of the so-called Holy Lance for representational purposes. Please note that a cost estimate will only be possible once exact dimensions and desired material execution have been provided. Attached was a two-page PDF with the file name Lance_USA_PreliminaryConsideration.pdf.

The file name was a misfortune. No one had meant anything malicious by it. Mühlbacher’s daughter had written USA because Krenner had spoken of a recipient at the highest level in the American context and because Holy_Lance_for_Representation_perhaps_America would have been too long. But in administration a file name is not merely a name. It is a secret commentary. Krenner stared at Lance_USA_PreliminaryConsideration.pdf and for the first time felt a small cold point in his stomach. He downloaded the file, saved it in the folder 03_Technical and renamed it Technical_InitialInformation.pdf. He did not then delete the original email. That would have been improper. Besides, it would have looked as though there were something to hide.

Pacher saw the same attachment and immediately decided that Riegler would have to be informed, not out of necessity, but because she was now already professionally involved. Riegler, in turn, did not forward it, but printed it out. It was her form of resistance to the speed of the world. She read the material variants: bronze, gilded; silver, gilded; solid gold, not recommended. Under Remarks it said: handling during presentation to be considered; stand or casket possible; transport insurance separate. Riegler looked for a long time at the word casket. It had something courtly about it, almost tender. She was annoyed at herself for having this thought. Then she wrote on the printout: Please no iconographic simplification. This was her attempt to salvage dignity. It would later be understood as a technical request for a higher degree of detail.

Around two o’clock the matter was mentioned in a meeting for the first time. Not as an agenda item, but in a postscript. Stadler was sitting with two colleagues from the America unit and a representative from Protocol to discuss a reception at which it was unclear whether the ambassador or the deputy chief of mission should give the speech, a difference meaningless to the world but decisive for the invitation card. Just as the meeting was already beginning to dissolve, Stadler said: “There is also this symbolic matter which might perhaps become relevant at some point.” Everyone remained seated. Not out of interest. Out of experience. Symbolic matters that might perhaps become relevant at some point were the most dangerous kind of matters.

Stadler briefly explained what she knew and left out everything she did not know, which unintentionally made the matter seem more coherent. It involved a tradition-related gesture in the transatlantic relationship, a possible replica of a historical object, still without political determination, but with cultural-historical and technical preliminary review. The Protocol representative, a man named Dr. Sandner, listened with closed lips. Sandner had devoted his professional life to the insight that every object being presented could be too large, too small, too expensive, too cheap, too political or not political enough. After a while he asked: “Do the Americans know about it?” Stadler said: “Not as far as I know.” Sandner nodded. “Then the most important question is whether they should know before they hear about it.”

This sentence, intended as a precaution, gave the matter a new direction. Stadler noted it down. Should know before they hear about it. It was almost beautiful. One could make a principle out of it. Another colleague observed that one must in any case avoid a symbolic gesture appearing as a surprise. Surprises in protocol were desirable only if they had been agreed in advance. Sandner agreed and suggested sounding out, at first quite generally, whether there were any sensitivities on the American side regarding historical forms of gift-giving. “Quite generally,” he said twice, because in authorities repetition serves the function of a handrail. Stadler promised to think about it.

While these sentences were being spoken, Hohenegg was sitting in Brussels in a room without daylight, listening to a woman from a Directorate-General explaining that cultural visibility had to be thought Europeanly but implemented nationally. Hohenegg took no notes. He thought of Vienna, of the red folder, without knowing why, and of Leitner’s sentence that texts sometimes believed themselves. He had the impression that this sentence was ridiculous. Then he remembered that many ridiculous sentences had in the course of his life become guidelines. He picked up his phone, saw three missed calls from Vienna, two of them from Krenner, and placed it back on the table face down. In Brussels they were currently talking about coordination windows. There were moments when even a Section Chief had to set priorities.

In Vienna, meanwhile, Krenner was writing an overview for Hohenegg’s return. He did not call it a report, because a report already sounded as though something had happened. He called it Current Status. Current Status was better. A current status asserted neither movement nor standstill, only that the matter was standing somewhere and that one could take note of the place. Under point one he listed the original draft, under point two Pacher’s assessment, under point three the initial technical information, under point four the protocol question of a possible American sensitisation. He read the word American, replaced it with US-side and was satisfied. US-side was cooler. Cooler words were preferable in hot matters.

Klara Moser learned none of this directly. She merely noticed that in the printer room there lay a printout not intended for her, but resting so openly on the machine as things rest there when they are being kept secret by no one and precisely for that reason are dangerous to everyone. It was the first page of Krenner’s Current Status. Moser saw the subject line: Tradition-related representational gesture / transatlantic context / current status. Her first thought was that the title had become worse. Her second thought was that the matter now apparently had a subject line. A subject line was less than a decision, but more than an idea. She did not take the sheet. She merely turned it over, as if doing the owner a favour. Then she went into her office and stood in front of her desk without sitting down.

Moser could now have gone to Krenner and said that everything rested on a seminar draft. She imagined the sentence. “That was only an exercise.” It sounded simple. Too simple. For what did only mean? Administration was full of things that had only been something before they became something else: only a preliminary review, only a draft, only an internal note, only a technical sounding. The word only was no protection. It was often the first step towards self-deception. Besides, Moser did not know whether Hohenegg had perhaps left the text behind on purpose. Perhaps he had wanted to test who would pick it up. Perhaps Leitner had been right and the boundary between fiction and administration did not run where Moser would have liked it to run. She sat down and did what she often did in difficult situations: she opened a new document and began writing nothing into it.

Towards the end of the working day Stadler formulated her sounding question. She did not want to send it to the Embassy, not really. She wanted at first only to prepare it, perhaps coordinate it with Sandner, perhaps on Monday. But texts that are prepared in ministries have an unpleasant tendency to belong to the present. She wrote: Dear colleagues, purely in general terms and without reference to any concrete project, we would be interested to know whether, on the US side, any particular sensitivities are known regarding high-level symbolic gift forms with a historical-imperial context. She read the sentence. It was impossible and usable at the same time. No one outside Austria would know what historical-imperial meant. Inside Austria hardly anyone knew either, but there precisely lay its purpose.

She first addressed the message to Sandner, then copied Krenner, then Pacher, since he was after all involved professionally. Then she searched her address book for an earlier contact at the US Embassy, a cultural attachée with whom she had corresponded months before about a scholarship programme. She merely wanted to copy the address into the Bcc field so that she could more easily find it again later, and then did not delete it. It was not a dramatic act. No betrayal, no intention, no intrigue. Only a small error in the handling of an email window at 17:36, at a time of day when the hand decides faster than consciousness. Stadler pressed send.

The message left the Ministry without a sound. No alarm, no flicker of lights, no fluttering curtain. On the screen there appeared only the small confirmation that the email had been sent. Stadler did not at first notice the additional recipient. Krenner received the message, read it on his phone and thought that Stadler was moving the matter forward cleverly and cautiously. Pacher saw the distribution list, frowned and resolved to ask about it on Monday. Sandner was already on his way to the lift. In an office of the American Embassy the email landed between an invitation to a concert and an enquiry about an exchange programme. There it remained unread for the time being. But it had arrived. And in the history of a matter, arrival is often more important than understanding.