On the 23rd Jumada al-Akhirah 1422 anno hegirae a comet falls to Earth (conversion is left as an excercise to the reader since H. Stein likes his winks and nods to our timeline demurely covered up, but not too much, like Reneissance nudes; in the reckoning of Luigi Lilio this is the 11th of September 2001 AD.)
If a plant pot falls off a balcony and hits a person, has it been predetermined? Thus philosophize a rabbi, a cardinal and a physchoanalyst who walk in Café Central (because there isn't a fourth to play cards with.)
Only an anachronistic world can allow for the continuity of such a doomed anachronism as Austria-Hungary, it seems: thus this alternate history's world is somewhat bizzare, akimbo, perversely conscious of its own stilted stillness — the armies of the world still wear the bright colours of the 19th century (and don't do much else, since the wisdom goes: constitutuonal monarchies don't make war with one another), they are perfectly ignorant of camoflage and tanks, and throwing bombs from airplanes, or of bombs as such, for all that there live men on the Moon: which Germany colonized in the mid-20th century, and where Einstein died toiling over a unified field theory in his observatory on the dark side of the Moon. France is one of only three European republics - along with the Swiss Confederation and the microstate of San Marino. Another one, a distant and fanciful experiment, neutral and isolationist in the ongoing tradition of the Munro doctrine, is America. (Neeedless to point out, there never was an Operation Paperclip, and in the lectures halls of MIT German is the language of science.)
It is also a profoundly Jewish world, as the Holocaust never came to pass and diasporic communities still make up a plurarily in the cities of Estern and Central Europe. This is the negative space that is also a shadow, in which the novel's world is built moreso than anything else. Spielberg makes movies for the film industry of Rosenhügel. Elderly Anne Frank won the Nobel Price in literature. Hebrew joins the smorgasbord of language on the street signs of Lviv Lemberg. Jewish presence is an omnipresent thing in the text, and judaic religious considerations and the preoccupations of a nation-without-state caught between assimiliation and tradition fuel much of the ponderings of the characters (How plausible is Prof. Dr. Adolf Brandeis's interpretation of the Talmud and lecture about hopelessness I am in no position to judge.) I pesonally was struck by an emphasis on multiculturality that had read a bit metafictionally self-conglatulatory in its self-conscious carefilly measured overt philosemitism, which read as something conditioned by remembrance culture but lacking all catalysts of historical tragedy and social reconstruction to explain it - which bespeaks anything but an easy multicultutality (or, possibly, a tad hack-ish writing.) I would not hold my breath over such an utopia, as I wouldn't over a hundred years of peace in Sarajevo, as I don't hold it over the end of history.
Meanwhile, on the couch of physchoanalist Dr. Wohlleben, the civil engineer Buehlolawek dreams of bombs thrown our of airplanes and soldiers in camoflage, of a world war (or two?), of the Danube Monarchy in pieces, of gas chambers and cattle train cars and a pogrom to end all pogroms. He sees it nightly. He cries, incomprehending. Dr. Wohlleben concludes that in those visions, bizzare like a Turtledove Turteltaub novel, there must exist a death drive to counterbalance the drive towards pleasure.
(To mention en passant: Biehlolawek's maternal grandfather is some kind of postcard watercolour painter named A. Hüttler, surely irrelevant.)
Georgia's national poet was a kindly small man of infinite sensibility who, alias Koba, robbed banks and committed murders in his youth, for the cause of a radical socialist splinter party which oxymoronically called itself the 'Majority' party and sizzled away, never having had more than a couple thousand members. Their leader, a certain V.I. Ulyanov alias Lenin, died in Zürich exile. Their rival, the 'Minority' Party on the contrary, went on to establish themselves as force of social democracy in the Tsar's realm, which includes Finland – where a bearded tech wizard is currently working out the mobile phone – but not, since 1941, either Poland or Ukraine, incorporated as semi-autonomous crown lands the rag carpet of nations of the Habsburg state as the two Galicias. (Though in the neighbouring empire the Georgian poet's grandson, one D(schugaschwili) also comes to see a psychoanalyst for his nightmare visions of a war-torn 20th centurty.
Surely irrelevant.)
'I want to go home,' said Franz Ferdinand in this world, and one may plausibly be forgiven to thinking it all turned out for the better.
Well, it took to the student protests of 1968, which in this world had the revolutionary goal of achiving female suffrage.
And colonialism is a thing. But, oh, well, the great powers have the burden to steward the developing world. Don't be ridiculous. Don't be irresponsible.
... But between the Earth and Moon (colony of the German Empire, since a conference on the Wansee signed off on the conquest of space and nothing else) the titular comet meets the crossroads of an Lagrange point, has a duty dance with the shearing forces of gravity and disintigrates.
It never pierces the clear blue atmosphere, that mysterious chunk of space debris, it never carves into Vienna's Latisberg on whose green slope Kaiser Franz Joseph II amid citizens awaits the apocalypse.
God is greater than our hope, and greater than our misfortune et Austria erit in orbe ultima.
An awful lot of the over-explanatory conscpicuous yet charming narration (this also being a 19th century atavism that died in the First War) and some interesting ideas. Also banal ideas that like to think of themselves as interesting, and a social consciousness that may be intentional and ironic but is certainly suspectly chauvinist: reactionary, progressive and humane is Hannes Stein's Austia-Hungary, a paradoxical phrase for a paradoxical situation.
Likewise goes for The Comet.