Thank Hugh, Kate!

By Christina H. Janousek

As I was passing Schönbrunn Palace one February morning on my way to work, I was confronted with a sight that I could not help but associate with the most unpalatable period in Austrian history. The one which we owe to a megalomaniac, yet small-minded landscape painter of the second class. Several poles had been erected in the palace garden, on which flags hung in red and blue, and with a golden lion at the center.

“Did I miss the announcement of a new regime change thanks to all the Fake News? Or has that too become unfashionable? Did I get so distracted by all the flying balloons, cat videos, and breath-holding challenges on TikTok that I had lost track of what was really going on?” I asked myself guiltily.

Whether justified or not, a guilty conscience is an indicator that one is in full grasp of Austrian history. (Kafka knew it, and he had not even experienced WWII.) The more collective the guilt, the better. For the benefit of a mundane event like a concert one would not have put so much effort in aligning the flags in such a way that they would flutter in the wind in precisely the same rhythm. Complacency is the highest good in this city, and it is worth defending with absolutely nothing.

When I returned from work, the very same passage I passed every day was still blocked by security personnel. From there, it was only a stone’s throw to my home. I saw a stocky man with a black vest and hood, standing wide-legged and with a dumbfounded grin, blocking the passageway. A gym bag was lying at his feet. He began to step from one leg to the other at a rapid pace, bending them as if he were pedaling an invisible wheel to compensate for a session at the gym which had to be cancelled today. He struck me as the kind of guy who always wore a Jack Wolfskin jacket in the presence of a female audience as an attempt to convince them that he was sportier than his looks might have led on.

“Isn’t it usually permitted to walk through here?” I inquired, partly feigning naiveté, yet still willing to behave towards him in a polite and accommodating manner.

“No,” he uttered bluntly. He was probably saving money so he could afford to articulate full sentences in the – hopefully immediate – future. He couldn’t spend the energy he was already investing in his body on superfluous communication, let alone on explanations that he didn’t owe anyone. This guy knew how to set his priorities.

“Why not?” I pressed on. I had to squeeze every word out of him.

“An event is taking place.”

“What kind?”

“Don’t know.” And as if he had a change of heart and wanted to sound more plausible, he added “Can’t say.”

The unnerving minimalism of this good citizen had irked me so much that I hadn’t become aware of the presence of another man, approaching the passage.

Same ordeal. When several convoys and a black van cruised through the area, said man suddenly rummaged around in his pocket and pulled out his mobile phone.

“There appears to be a film shoot taking place for an upcoming series. It’s all over town. Last week, I was out and about in the first district, and everything was cordoned off,” he enlightened me.

He rolled his eyes, a gesture that the proud security guard didn’t seem to resent. He did let slip that the crew was on their belated lunch break. Yet, I couldn’t help but notice that his statement had just been the concealment of another passive-aggressive jibe, which he probably didn’t expect us to expose. He would have given anything to be an extra in the series and sign a confidentiality clause.

Curiosity stirred me. Not because all this uproar had sparked my interest in the series. I wanted to know which actors I had to thank for any unnecessary diversions.

“Siri, look for film shoot in first district”, the gentleman admonished his phone. “A yes, right. It’s called The Palace.”

He pronounced the names of the actors in such an adoring manner, but in the most broken English I had come across in a while:

“With ‘Huge Grähnt’ and ‘Kät Winsluht’.”

(The guard’s etiquette was undoubtedly in need of a huge grant.) Although not much could be gleaned from the headlines, it turned out that the series was about a ‘fictitious’ regime falling into decay. Seriously? It was pretentious to speak of a fictitious regime when the source of inspiration was evident. Why did one need a series when one could experience all the authoritarian action live? Even when I asked the guard, after I felt there was no point in being secretive any longer, if he knew more about the content, he only remained defiant. I wondered whether Cerberus might have been born four-headed.

“Even if I did, I would not disclose it to you.”

He stamped his boots in a strangely regular rhythm. (He tried to convince me this was Morse code for “I’m freezing”).

We were then joined by two ladies.

When the gentleman told them about the ‘event’, but withheld the contributors’ names from them, I dropped the ‘news’ bomb.

“With Kate Winslet and Hugh Grant.”

“Hugh Graaaant! What a handsome fellah he is”, she crooned. She had loosened her tight grip from her pram.

“Good luck”, I exclaimed spitefully.

“Thank you”, the guard laughed. His front was still up yet crumbling.

I was certain that Mr. Notting Hill would be flattered by some lady visitors, while contorting a Wiener Schnitzel. It would also be an opportunity for Kate to educate them on the many differences between her role as the dictator Jeanine Matthews and her current one.

Born in Vienna, Austria, Christina Janousek has a bachelor’s degree in Comparative
Literature and is currently working on her master thesis at the University of Vienna. In her
paper, she analyses visual and photographic discourses and metaphors in Franz Kafka’s “The
Trial” and Vladimir Nabokov’s “Invitation to a Beheading”. She has gained work experience
at different cultural institutions (e. g. publishing houses such as Passagen Verlag and
Amalthea Verlag, literature societies like the Austrian Society of Literature and a small
magazine called “Zwischenwelt” of the Theodor Kramer Society). This did not only give her
the opportunity to work together with journalists and write short adds, but also to look behind
the scenes of the literary business. This concerns, among other matters, discussions between
authors and editors as well as the production process in a publishing house. In 2023, she will
complete a newspaper internship in the culture section of DER STANDARD where she may
further unfold her research skills. Christina is an admirer of the literary fairy tale (Hoffmann,
Tieck, Odoevsky, Hawthorne, Wilde, Ewers) the Decadent Movement (Mirbeau) and
absurdism (Kafka, Nabokov, Charms). Her previously published work “Der Spitzel in Viktor
Pelevins Roman ‘T.’” can be found on the homepage of the Documentation Centre for Central
and Eastern European Literature. “The Mirror of First Gazes, The Tale of Romir and Solana,
Silk of Sins” is the first collection of short stories she has written. She is fluent in German and
English and has basic knowledge in Russian, Italian and Latin.