English translation
 Katja Bohnet's Creative Process

Irgendwann muss jeder seinem Schöpfer gegenüber treten. Ich dachte immer, das wäre ein Witz.

Der Salzrand der unzähligen Margaritas hat sich auf meiner Zunge abgelagert. Ich schmatze, schlucke, der Eindruck bleibt. Morgens hat man immer zu wenig Spucke. Ich mache Halt in meinem Hirn. San Francisco. California, USA. Wir sind gestern angekommen. Getrampt, irgendein Trucker hat uns mitgenommen. Wir haben nicht mehr viel dabei. Unsere Rucksäcke haben sich in den vergangenen Wochen geleert. Irgendwann hatten wir kein Geld mehr, sie aufzufüllen. Meine Jeans ist steif vom Dreck. Mein Hemd fleckig. Ich rieche an dem Stoff. Alkohol, Schweiß und ich. Das bin ich, mein Hemd, mein Geruch. Und das reicht, um mich wieder ins Hier und Jetzt zu holen. Ich schlage die Augen auf: Park, Grünanlage, Baum. Sonne in staubigen Streifen wie Lichtstraßen zwischen den Blättern. Mein Rucksack ist noch da, unter meinem Kopf. Fucking unbequem. Jetzt tun mir die Schultern weh. Mein Rücken, mein Arsch, meine Waden sind feucht. Der Morgentau hat sich durch die Fäden geschlichen. Ich stehe auf, sehe mich um.

Conny. Warum er auf diesen Mädchennamen hört, verstehe ich bis heute nicht. Irgendwann gewöhnt man sich wohl an alles. Er schläft noch. Ich schubse ihn mit dem Fuss. Aber Conrad Meyer dreht sich einfach noch mal um. Ein Lichtstrahl fällt direkt in mein Auge, blendet mich. Da stehe ich in dieser scheiß Stadt, in diesem scheiß Park und habe trotzdem keine Ahnung, wo ich eigentlich bin.

„Ausweise?“

Conny und ich legen unsere Reisepässe auf den Tresen. Der Typ besteht darauf, die Passnummern selbst zu notieren. Als hätte ihn die Arbeit in einem Hostel von Natur aus skeptisch gemacht. Wir schweigen, sehen zu, wie er unter dem Vorhang seiner fettigen Haare Zahlen in das System hackt. Heute braucht keiner mehr einen Stift. Der Tresen: Holz. Hinter dem Typen an der Wand: Holz. An der Decke: Holz. Hässlicher geht es nicht. Wir übernachten nur in den billigsten Absteigen.

Er gibt uns einen Schlüssel. „Dritter Stock, Nr. 356, links den Gang runter.“ Er schaut nicht mal auf.

Wir gehen die Treppen hoch. Amerikaner stehen auf Teppichböden. Einer bunter gemustert als der andere. Ich habe tatsächlich Albträume, in denen ich von den schrillen Ornamenten blind werde. Ich schreie dann und irre orientierungslos mit ausgestreckten Händen umher. Irgendwann falle ich, werde von bunten Polyesterfäden vergewaltigt. Nach dem Teppich zu urteilen, könnten wir in einem Casino sein. In Las Vegas sieht‘s auf dem Boden auch nicht anders aus. Aber der Rest um uns herum ist San Francisco: Dreck, Armut, Arbeitslosigkeit vor einer hübschen Kulisse. Das Wetter ist toll. Man merkt hier drinnen nur nichts mehr davon. Auf dem Weg nach oben zähle ich zwei Fenster. Beide sind mit Sperrholzplatten zugenagelt. Im zweiten Stock gibt es nur noch zwei Lampen im Flur, im dritten Stock nur noch eine. Ich bin froh, dass wir nicht im Vierten wohnen. Nachdem wir uns ein Mal verlaufen haben, stehen wir vor drei-fünf-sechs. Den Schlüssel brauchen wir nicht, die Tür ist auf. Wir gehen rein. Conny stellt seinen Rucksack ab, wir sehen uns um.

Das Fester: vergittert. Kein Stuhl, kein Tisch, kein Schrank. Die Matratze: durchgelegen, abgewichst. Ich zähle sechs große Flecken. Zwei davon sind definitiv Blut. Menstruation oder anderes? Die anderen sehen aus wie Pisse, riechen auch so. An der Wand irgendein Schleim. Aus Mund oder Nase, das ist schwer zu sagen. Conny beugt sich runter, betrachtet die Matratze genau. Ich weiß, dass er nach Wanzen sucht. Hatten wir alles schon. Auf der gewellten Oberfläche bleibt es ruhig. Hat nichts zu bedeuten, aber es besänftigt uns ein wenig. Wir rollen unsere Schlafsäcke aus.

„Ich muss mal.“

Conny nickt, setzt sich auf‘s Bett, vorsichtig, als fürchte er, hinterrücks von einer Wanzen-Hundertschaft überwältigt zu werden.

Ich gehe raus auf den Gang, muss meine Augen erst wieder an das Nicht-Licht gewöhnen. Adjust. In meinem Kopf spielt ein Lied. „Ooh la la la it's the way that we rock when we're doing our thing ...“ Lauryn Hill nimmt mich an die Hand. Zieht mich zur Toilette. Wenn sie mich nicht führen würde, fände ich das beschissene Loch erst gar nicht. Wir lassen die letzte Glühbirne hinter uns, wandeln ins Dunkel, der Teppich schluckt unsere Schritte. Lauryn ist eine Katze. Ich wünschte, sie wäre real.

„Your money!“ Die Stimme ist heiser, männlich. Der Typ dazu stinkt noch mehr als ich. In seiner Hand ist ein Messer. Das Rumgefuchtel macht mich nervös. Wenn das Messer nicht wäre, sähe man rein gar nichts. Der Stahl blinkt hier und da, fängt das bisschen Licht ein, das sich hier im Flur noch aufhält. Würde ich nicht gerade bedroht, könnte ich es vielleicht sogar schön finden. Lauryn hat mich einfach losgelassen.

Ich sage, dass ich nichts habe. Das stimmt. Mein Geldbeutel liegt bei Conny auf dem Bett. Das, was ich noch an Kohle besitze, ist keinen Überfall wert. Ein komplexer Zusammenhang in dieser heiklen Situation. Der Typ sagt was von „Travellers Cheques“ und noch mal „money“. Ich merke, wie Adrenalin mich überschwemmt. Wie Angst meine Beine aufweicht. Ich stottere noch etwas, was, weiß ich nicht genau, dann kommt etwas Dunkles auf mich zu. Schwarz im Dunkelgrau. Es frisst sich in meinen Bauch, mir wird ganz warm, ich gehe auf die Knie. Jemand stöhnt. Das muss ich sein, weil die dunkle Masse weg ist, die heisere Stimme auch. Ich bin allein. Und weil ich Angst habe zu verbluten - denn das ist es wohl: Blut, das aus meiner Seite rausläuft - rapple ich mich auf, stütze mich an der Wand ab und stolpere weiter. Ich will mich in Sicherheit bringen. In mir läuft ein Notstromaggregat. Ich drücke eine Klinke runter: nichts. Ich schleppe mich weiter an der Wand entlang, presse meine Hand auf das Warme, Feuchte. Hinterlasse wahrscheinlich eine Spur aus verwischten, roten Klecksen. Wie Madonna in Take a Bow, Juliette Binoche in Drei Farben: Blau - mein Leben verkommt zum Zitat. An der nächsten Tür habe ich Glück.

Am Tisch sitzt ein Mann. Ziemlich alt, weißer Vollbart, helles Hemd. Er kommt mir bekannt vor. Das Leben ist ungerecht, denke ich. Warum hat der einen Tisch und wir nicht?

„Hallo“, sagt er. Schaut auf seinen Bildschirm. Irgendetwas flackert in seinem Gesicht.

„Äh, Entschuldigung. Können Sie mir helfen?“

Er schaut wieder auf.

Ich kenne den Mann. In meinem müden Verstand sind alle Alarmlampen an.

„Einen Moment“, murmelt er.

Hoffentlich habe ich den noch, denke ich und warte.

Dann erhebt er sich, winkt mich zu sich. Achselzuckend bemerkt er: „Die Situation in Mali macht mir Sorgen.“

Ich denke: Was?! und sage: „Ja, mir auch.“

Dann kommt er auf mich zu, nimmt meine Hand von der Wunde und verzieht das Gesicht. Weil mir schlecht ist, setze ich mich sicherheitshalber auf den Boden. Einen kurzen Filmriss später kommt er mit ein paar weißen Tüchern zurück. Dann liege ich auf seinem Bett, um meinen Bauch habe ich einen Verband, kein Leck mehr. Mir ist kalt.

Er sitzt schon wieder an seinem Bildschirm. „Dieser Ahmadinejad“, besorgt schüttelt er den Kopf. „Die Rezession.“

Und da endlich. „Sind Sie Gott?“

Leicht abwesend nickt er.

„Was machen Sie hier in diesem runtergekommenen Loch?“

Er sieht mich an, traurig, enttäuscht. „Die Rezession hat auch das Elysium erreicht.“

Seine Hoffnungslosigkeit macht mir Angst. „Lieber Gott. Bitte hilf mir!“ Mir ist plötzlich so jämmerlich zumute. Es ist mir fast peinlich.

„Du kannst mich Dave nennen. Gott ist so ... steif.“

Ich nicke müde. Dann fange ich an, zu begreifen. „Muss ich jetzt sterben?“

Gott - Dave, fuckin‘ whatever - zuckt mit den Schultern. Er scheint sich noch mit sich selbst uneinig zu sein. „Die Situation in Mali macht mir Sorgen.“ Dave hat es nicht leicht. All diese bewaffneten Konflikte.

Mir geht es gerade auch nicht gut. Aber was bedeutet schon mein Leben im Vergleich zu Mali? Ich denke an die Geschichte mit dem bösen Sohn, dann an die mit dem entlaufenen Schaf. Hätte ich in Religion mal besser aufgepasst. Denn leben, das würde ich schon gern.

Dave - es fällt mir immer noch schwer, ihn so zu nennen - breitet die Hände aus. Ich erkenne den Klassiker mit den weiten Ärmeln. Oder war das sein Sohn? Er sieht mich an, erst ernst, dann nickt er, lächelt.

Ich habe keine Ahnung, warum, aber es wird mir plötzlich warm.

Conny grinst mich an. „Na?!“

Ich habe Krankenhäuser schon immer gehasst. Aber ich stinke nicht, ich friere nicht, und das lässt mich besser über die weiße Bettdecke, die mintgrünen Wände und den Geruch nach Sagrotan denken. Es ist `ne Wanzen freie Zone.

Und Conny strahlt, als hätte ich ihm was ganz Tolles geschenkt. „Und ich dachte schon, du hast nicht mehr alle Tassen im Schrank. Kein Wunder nach all den Margaritas. Du hast immer Dave zu mir gesagt.“

„Ich dachte, du wärst Gott.“

„Denk ich auch manchmal.“

„Wusstest du, dass Gott in unserem scheiß Hostel wohnt?“

„Nee, echt?“

„Aber er hat einen Tisch. ... und einen Stuhl.“

„Verdammte Zweiklassen-Gesellschaft!“

Ich ziehe mir die Nadel aus der Armbeuge, freue mich über den Anblick der roten Tropfen und beschließe, bei Gelegenheit die alten Platten wieder rauszuholen.

"Fäden im Morgentau" deutsche Fassung in
„Das Prinzip der sparsamsten Erklärung" Nr. 10, 2/2014, Hrsg. Bross, Kreuzmair, Michalek, Pfaller, München

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Threads in Dew

"Threads in Dew & Other Stories"
translated by Rachel Hildebrandt,
published at Weyward Sisters Publishing, USA, 2/2017

Everyone has to meet their maker someday. It’s just I always thought that was only a joke.

The salt from countless margarita glasses has coated my tongue. I slurp, swallow, but the taste lingers. You never have enough saliva in the morning. I try to stop my thoughts.

San Francisco. California, USA. We got here yesterday. Hitchhiked. Some trucker picked us up. We don’t have much with us by this point. Our backpacks have grown emptier over the past few weeks. We eventually ran out of money to keep them full. My jeans are stiff with dirt, my shirt has spots. I sniff the fabric. Alcohol, sweat and me. That is the extent of me, my shirt, my smell. And that is enough to bring me back to the here and now. I open my eyes: park, grass, tree. The sun in dusty strips, like light trails slipping between the leaves. My backpack is still here, under my head. Fucking uncomfortable. Now my shoulders ache. My back, my ass, my calves are damp. The morning dew crept between the threads. I stand up and look around.

Conny. I still can’t understand why he goes by a girl’s name. You can get used to anything eventually, I guess. He’s still asleep, so I nudge him with my foot. But all Conrad Meyer does is flip over. A sunbeam hits me right in the eye, blinding me momentarily. Here I am, standing in this shitty city, in this shitty park, and I still have no idea where I really am.

“ID?”

Conny and I set our passports on the counter. The guy has insisted that he has to write down our passport numbers himself. Maybe working in a hostel has made him suspicious. We say nothing as we watch him type the numbers into the system, his greasy hair creating a curtain between him and us. Nobody needs pens anymore these days. The counter: wood. The wall behind the guy: wood. The ceiling: wood. It couldn’t get any uglier than this. We only stay in the cheapest dumps.

He hands us a key without looking up again. “Third floor, Room 356. On the left, at the end of the hall.”

We head upstairs. Americans really like carpeted floors, each one more brightly decorated than the one before. I actually have nightmares in which the garish patterns bind me. I scream and stumble around, disoriented, my hands stretched in front of me. At some point, I fall and am raped by the bright polyester threads. If you went by the carpet, it looks like we’re staying in a casino. The floors in Las Vegas don’t look any different, but the other things around us are pure San Francisco: garbage, poverty, unemployment - all against a flawless backdrop. The weather is great, though there’s no sign of that here inside. I count two windows as we head up. They’ve both been nailed shut with pieces of plywood. The second floor has two lamps along the corridor, but the third floor only has one. I’m glad we’re not staying on the fourth.

After getting lost only once, we come to a stop in front of 3-5-6. We don’t need the key, since the door is wide open. We go in. Conny drops his backpack, and we look around.

The window: barred. No chair, no table, no closet. The mattress: sagging, discolored. I count six large spots. Two of them are definitely blood. Menstrual or something else? The others look like piss, and smell like it, too. There’s some kind of slime on the wall. Hard to say whether it’s from a mouth or nose. Conny crouches down to examine the mattress more closely. I know he’s looking for bedbugs. We’ve had it all. The wavy surface isn’t moving. That doesn’t mean anything, but it reassures us a little. We unroll our sleeping bags.

“I’ve got to go.”

Conny nods and sits down on the bed, cautiously, as if afraid of a rear attack from a battalion of bedbugs.

I go out in the hall, and my eyes have to get used to the dim light again. Adjust. A song is playing in my head. “Ooh la la la it’s the way that we rock when we’re doing our thing…” Lauryn Hill takes me by the hand, pulling me toward the bathroom. If she weren’t leading the way, I’d never have found that crappy hole. We leave the last lightbulb behind, strolling into the darkness as the carpet swallows our footsteps. Lauryn is just a cat. I wish she were the real thing.

“Your money!” The voice is rough, masculine. The guy reeks even more than I do. A knife is clasped in his hand, and his fidgeting makes me nervous. If he didn’t have the knife, I wouldn’t be able to see anything. The steel gleams every now and then, as it catches a bit of the light that has worked its way in here from the hallway. If I weren’t being threatened, I might even find it rather pretty. Lauryn has abandoned me.

I explain that I don’t have anything. It’s true. My wallet is lying beside Conny on the bed. What I have in terms of cash isn’t worth a mugging anyway. A complex correlation in this dicey situation. The guy mumbles something about “travelers’ checks,” and again “money.” I notice that my adrenaline is running at full capacity, that fear is making my knees weak. I stutter something, though I’m not sure what, and then something dark comes at me. Black in dark gray. It bites its way into my stomach, and I grow very warm, as I fall to my knees. Someone groans. It has to be me, because the dark blob is gone, as is the rough voice. I’m by myself. And because I’m afraid of bleeding to death - because that’s what it is: blood, which is spilling out of my side - I pull myself up, brace myself against the wall, and stumble on. I need to get to safety. I’m now running on my backup generator. I turn a doorknob: nothing. I slide along the wall, pressing my hand against the warmth, the dampness. I’m probably leaving behind a trail of smudgy, red spots. Like Madonna in Take a Bow or Juliette Binoche in Three Colors: Blue. My life dwindles down to a quote. My luck turns at the next door.

A man is sitting at a table. Fairly old, white beard, pale shirt. He looks familiar to me. Life isn’t fair, I think. Why does he get a table and we don’t?

“Hello,” he says, before glancing back down at his computer screen. Something flickers across his face.

“Um, excuse me. Could you help me?”

He looks back up.

I know this man. All of the alarm claxons go off in my weary mind.

“One moment,” he mumbles.

I hope I have one to spare, I think as I wait.

Then he stands up and waves me over. With a shrug, he comments: “I’m worried about the situation in Mali.”

I think: What?! But I say: “Yes, me too.”

He walks over to me, pulls my hand away from the wound, and frowns. Because I feel sick, I sit down on the floor, just to be on the safe side. I blank out for a moment, but here he is returning with a couple of white towels. Next thing I know, I’m leaning back on his bed with a white bandage around my stomach. I’m not leaking anymore. I feel cold.

He is sitting back in front of the computer. “This Ahmadinejad,” he shakes his head apprehensively. “The recession.”

And then finally. “Are you God?”

He nods, a little absentmindedly.

“What are you doing here in this dive?”

He gazes at me, sad, disappointed. “The recession has also reached paradise.”

His hopelessness scares me. “Dear God. Please help me!” I suddenly feel pathetic, almost to the point of shame.

“You may call me Dave. God is so… formal.”

I nod wearily. Then I begin to understand. “Do I have to die now?”

God - Dave, fuckin’ whatever - shrugs. He seems to be struggling with himself. “The situation in Mali worries me.” Dave doesn’t have it easy. All those wars and fighting.

I’m not doing so well at this point either, but what is my life compared to Mali? I think about the story of the prodigal son, and then about the lost sheep. I should’ve paid more attention in religion class. I really would like to keep on living right now.

Dave - it’s still hard for me to call him that - spreads out his hands. I now recognize the classic image with the wide sleeves. Or was that his son? He looks at me, seriously at first, but then he nods with a smile.

I have no idea why, but I suddenly feel warm.

Conny grins at me. “Well?!”

I’ve always despised hospitals, but I’m not stinking or freezing, and this lets me take in the white coverlet, the mint green walls, and the scent of Lysol all the better. This is a bedbug-free zone.

And Conny is beaming, as if I’d just given him something real wonderful.

“I thought you had a screw loose somewhere. No wonder, considering all the margaritas. You kept calling me Dave.”

“I thought you were God.”

“I think that too sometimes.”

“Did you know that God is staying in our shitty hostel?”

“For real?”

“But he has a table. … and a chair.”

“Damned two-class system!”

I pull the needle out of the crook of my arm and savor the sight of the red droplets. As soon as I can, I’ll take the old records back out again.

-

Katja Bohnet writes. Born in Mannheim (Germany) in 1971, she pursued film studies and philosophy in college, and now lives somewhere between Frankfurt and Cologne. Travels: a lot. Jobs: a few. Kids: a couple. A former TV writer and moderator with WDR Cologne, she now spends her time making up novels and stories. Her works have appeared in various periodicals and anthologies, including entwürfe, Am Erker, erostepost, und the MDR Literaturwettbewerbs 2013. Her debut thriller novel Messertanz was published in 2015 by Knaur.

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My Creative Process
I sit down. I write. I do not plot, only make a rough plan. Focus on an idea. Mainly on two or three characters whom I try to get to know well. Develop a first person narrator, second or third. Sometimes I work with mixed perspectives. Try to ignore rules. Start with a strong sentence, an emotionally powerful situation. My approach is immediate. I work continuously, if possible, every day. A few pages. No fear. Because only in chaos is there an order which comes by itself. Trust. The story unrolls. I just follow. Long hours of reading have established my intuitive understanding of rhythm and timing. For the required length of a novel or a short story. I do not hold anything back. I do not aim for perfection. Writing is about taking risks. Down to the point, disturbing, poetic.

Can you tell us a little about the origins of “Threads in Dew” and why you wrote it?
Traveling inspires me. I have stayed in a variety of unusual, sometimes uncomfortable places around the world. Speaking different languages inspires the imagination. From a building, a situation or an atmosphere, I build the story. I like to mix literary elements, to walk along the boundaries between reality and fantasy. My characters enjoy our journey. Writing is traveling. While you travel, noir and a sense of humor walk side by side. The original title for this story was "Two-Class Society." My former agent proposed something less political, more lyrical. So I went for a strange bit from the story itself: "Fäden im Morgentau." Translated into English by Rachel Hildebrandt as "Threads in Dew."

Why did you decide to become a writer?
Accidentally. I never wanted to be a writer. Too much respect for the profession. Actress, tv presenter, photographer: yes. To be a writer was too far off, too intellectual. When my kids were small, I realized: Fuck, my life is over. I will never have a career. I studied, I worked, but I have been out of the loop for a long time. The market doesn't forgive. I have to be there to raise the kids, and part-time jobs for freelance journalists pay ridiculously low amounts or are, in fact, nonexistent. So I knew, my only option would be an office or sales job. At this point, I knew I had nothing to lose, so I wrote my first novel. I had an idea, two characters. I did not hesitate. I did not have the slightest idea how it would turn out. When I finished the first draft three weeks later, I was ashamed. I worked on it for some more weeks. Nobody knew. And then I gave it to friends. That felt embarrassing. They were critical. I rewrote. There were doubts: I messed up. Maybe I would publish it myself eventually. It was mediocre. No big deal. Nothing more than a waste of time.

Somebody talked me into sending the manuscript to a literary agency. I did and received a contract within two hours. I did not call myself a writer until I had my first contract with a big publishing house in Germany. It felt important not to misuse the title. It had to be earned through rough times. It was an endless up and down. It still is. I work in different jobs. I try not to depend on writing because it sucks the life out of me. Being a writer is more valuable to me than having the title of "artist." I am a practical person. I do not want to distance myself from other people by calling myself an "artist." Writing is still thrilling and a constant pain in the ass. There is too little time. Writing becomes an urge, necessary and repellent at the same time. Sometimes it is sheer pleasure. I have written eight novels and over forty short stories over the past five years. No other job fulfills me like being a writer. If I have nothing more to say or write, I'll just stop. Today I have finally arrived at a place, that I did not know even existed. It's like coming home. To myself.

Who were some of your formative influences? Are there other writers or teachers in your family?
Nobody in my family is a writer. We are all academics. Economists, teachers, lawyers, bankers. But not artists. I tried every other artistic thing on this planet. I am very attached to art. Of any kind. I make a very good black sheep. Everybody in my family reads. Even as a child, I read everything. Books, comics, newspapers, magazines. From every genre, every literary direction. I do not like to talk about "favorite books," because to fall in love with a book, the circumstances and timing are the most important things. I have reread a few of my favorite books and was sometimes disappointed or puzzled. For different reasons. So now I just read a book once. Despise it or love it. I have long been a fan of American and French literature. I greatly enjoyed all the creative writing classes that I took after I wrote my first few novels and short stories. I suddenly understood things I had done intuitively. I realized how the machine worked that I had operated for some time. Finally, somebody showed me an operation manual. I long thought I would never become a teacher. That job can be close to a missionary's, but perhaps that will be the next thing I do.

Literature and its Links to Other Mediums
Photography, painting, sculpture, drawing, graphic novels, film, dance, music. Any artistic kind of expression gives me a kick. Literature allows you to play God in your own universe. You have an unlimited budget; your canvas can be tiny or huge. The world may not be enough for the things you have to say, so you tune your instrument and only play the music you like. There are no boundaries, no frontiers to literature. Go wherever you want to go. It`s the greatest possible freedom. It is about communication and liberation. Words are silly, and they fade. Yet there is something tragically important about every word that is written down. A small sign grows into a message. Like a tree. From a letter to words and sentences to a story.

What are you working on now? What are your hopes for the future of literature? What are your views on the future of communication and how technology is changing the way we communicate, read, interact with the world and our imaginations?
I work on a new thriller. Am about halfway through. Like so many times before, it seems impossible that I will ever finish it. So it is just another rollercoaster ride. I am also waiting for my next novel to be published in February 2018. Waiting. One of the most important skills for a writer. Literature will always be here. Somehow. As paperback books or e-books or data files. Or as something yet unknown. The future for the next generation seems unstable. International conflicts, climate change, water shortages, a growing gap between North and South, rich and poor. But the world is a difficult, tragic, wonderful place to live. That is why there is (noir) fiction. Hope in the middle of despair.