A Streetcar Named Wish

«A Streetcar named Wish» “Take comfort in this banal truth: there are victories that lead into dead ends, and defeats that open new roads.” — Bitter Moon “Am I going to Koneva’s tomorrow?” — this question, made up of exactly four words, gnawed at me every Friday from five to eight in the evening. Precisely at eight, as was my custom, I would finally summon within myself — in some triumphant, heroic surge — the strength to call her. The telephone effortlessly tore through the space of two streets, and I would hear her cheerful young voice informing me that yes, tomorrow was still on. To study under Irina Ivanovna Koneva in our little settlement was considered a mark of great intelligence. I, being regarded by general opinion as gifted, enjoyed this privilege — and free of charge, no less. It had all begun simply, almost mundanely. Her friend, who happened to be a friend of mi cara¹ grandmother, asked me to help the elderly Irina Ivanovna with her computer. The latter, meanwhile, promised a rather respectable sum for my assistance, and I — like most people my age — accepted the task without the slightest complaint. Allow me, my exacting reader, to express to you the quiet delight I experienced upon first meeting this majestic lady. In her deeply advanced years, Irina Ivanovna drove a brand-new Chery, practiced yoga, and cared for a cat named Mimi and a Yorkshire terrier called Oscar. She was a goddess among poetesses. What is more, Koneva spoke flawless Spanish, having spent two years in her youth working as a translator for the Havana branch of the KGB, and she tutored English on the side. Intellectual nourishment — something my peers at the time had absolutely no need for — poured down upon me like from a cornucopia. Thanks to her, I began gnawing at the granite of the Spanish language with the diligence of a wind-up toy. Every one of our meetings invariably began with a cup of tea — with mint and St. John’s wort. Irina Ivanovna would obligingly perform her little spells over the stove, and on a deep plate there would appear tiny pancakes, ruddy as solar craters. On the wooden kitchen shelf where she kept jars of pickles, boxes of tea, and bouquets of dried herbs, there stood above all else — like the image of a saint in a red corner — a framed photograph, ten by fifteen centimeters, black-and-white and slightly faded. A young man, dressed unmistakably not in Soviet fashion (that is to say, in jeans and tall boots, with a coat from Beriozka), smiled all thirty-two teeth into the camera while holding out, in extended arms, a hefty fish of uncertain species. Dark curly hair escaped from beneath a beret, and his face shone with a kind of innocent, childlike bliss. That photograph lodged itself inside my head. Burned itself into my retina like a sunspot. At last, over tea, I committed a blunder — knowing my teacher’s passion for philosophy, I blurted out, with pretensions to profundity: “And what is Eternity to you?” Koneva looked at me. Blinked. Then lifted her head toward the shelf — toward that very photograph — and back at me again. “Eternity began for me on a June morning. In Dresden. On tram line 11, which crossed Postplatz on its way to Altstadt.” Irina Ivanovna settled more comfortably into her chair and took a sip of tea. “After returning from Cuba, my colleagues and I received vouchers for a two-week stay in Dresden. There was me — and three girlfriends of mine, all rewarded with this generosity for ‘excellent work in the friendly nation of Cuba.’ The girls, on our very first proper day there, rushed off to see the old city. Here, my friend, let me interrupt myself for a tiny remark: in German cities, Altstadt is what they call the historical center. As for me, I desperately wanted to sleep — the journey had been long — so we arranged to meet at eleven in the morning by the Zwinger. I pulled on a little hat from Beriozka, slipped into a black skirt with flounces, and, leaving the hotel, boarded a tram. In the back row, tapping his fingers against his knee, sat a young man in short trousers, a ridiculous polo shirt, and tennis shoes worn without socks.” Irina Ivanovna cleared her throat, pushed the plate of gingerbread closer to me, and continued: “So then, I looked at him. And suddenly there came the thunderclap of the ticket inspector. To this day I thank the Dresden Public Transportation Authority for that assistance. The inspector approached him first. He nodded, giving his curls a slight shake, turned out his pockets, shuffled coins and scraps of paper around. My lovely seatmate assured her, in quiet German, that he must have dropped his ticket on the floor. Meanwhile, the woman was already preparing to write him a fine. He lowered his eyes, crimson with shame, and I understood at once — he was lying. We both bent toward the floor, pretending to search for the little paper rectangle. While no one was looking, I slipped my own ticket into his hand. ‘Danke, Fräulein²,’ he rewarded me. The young man muttered an ‘Entschuldigen Sie³’ to the woman and exhaled. And I — frantic, insane — seized the inspector by the arm and loudly announced in English to the entire carriage: ‘I’m getting off with you!’ The young man looked at me with brown eyes — as in the song, ‘two brown cherries…’ — full of bewilderment. The tram stopped, and I jumped out. I waved to my charming swindler. He turned back to look at me through the rear window — and the carriage rolled away. The conductress, meanwhile, spent twenty minutes lecturing me in broken English about how I, as a tourist from the USSR, ought to have set an example of socialist civility to the locals instead of aiding and abetting fare evasion.” “You truly are a heroine,” I replied, sensing that one had to reply something: the air had grown thick enough to scoop with a spoon. “I was suddenly sickened by everything. The smell of Dresden bakeries, which only yesterday had seemed heavenly, now filled me with a pale blue melancholy. I must have stood there for five minutes staring into nothing. He was somewhere out there — my magician in tennis shoes — but where… I arrived at the meeting place fifteen minutes late. My friends were chattering noisily. I had to tell them. One laughed for ages: ‘It’s fate, Ira!’ I tried to walk myself into forgetfulness. It didn’t work. I swore to myself that I would see him again. I would see him — even if the entire vacation had to be spent searching.” “Did you?” “I went into a café. Sat there with a gloomy face and thought: imagine that — me, a KGB employee, falling in love with a German on vacation! Nonsense. I had read many books and tried to behave the way they said one should there — but I could not remember a single one beginning: ‘If you meet someone on a tram…’ Then Ella nudged me: ‘Look, Irka, there’s your little German!’ I thought she was joking. I looked where she pointed. At a table to the left sat three men: two blond ones — and one vaguely familiar. I met the blond one’s eyes. He shouted: ‘Brigitte Bardot!’ That, presumably, drew attention. ‘Go on!’ Katya shoved me forward. Like an idiot, I approached the table. ‘You owe me a ticket, young man!’ I fired off in Russian, certain that he habla solo alemán⁴. ‘I don’t owe you a ticket, miss — I owe you my life,’ he replied in the very same language. I was ready to sink into the ground. ‘And how exactly do I deserve your life?’ ‘I thought I had dreamed you. And that you saved me from a police station. Or perhaps you’re an angel.’ ‘I thought exactly the same thing about you, young man,’ I said, extending my hand. ‘Irina.’ ‘Yura. Konev.’ He shook my hand. ‘You even have a Russian name! What a small world.’ ‘My parents moved to East Germany from Kharkiv after the war. My mother’s Jewish, my father Ukrainian.’ He called the waiter over. Presumably he ordered two bottles of Fanta — because that was what they brought us. I glanced back: my girlfriends waved at me cheerfully while devouring their dinner. Midnight found us on Prager Strasse. I had completely forgotten what sleep was. At last Yura told me he was a pianist and had recently graduated from the conservatory. Only slightly older than me: I was twenty-two, he twenty-four. I was an absolute fool. ‘Come visit me. In the Union.’ At the time I had a state apartment in Volgograd. Like a madwoman, I gave him the hotel address and fled back toward it. Eight in the morning. I look out the window — our windows faced the street. There he stands. Holding a bouquet of peonies. Katya comes running in. ‘Well, would you look at you — practically a citizen of Germany already!’ she squealed. So, for such an occasion, I dressed in haste and floated out onto the cobblestones. The next day he took me into some hall and played me ‘Lullaby.’ I think I must have lost my mind. Neither the Grünes Gewölbe nor the opera house interested me in the slightest. All I did was count the days until departure.” The cat leapt onto Irina Ivanovna’s lap. She cast it a glance. “No, I’m not feeding you!” “I slipped a sheet of paper with my address into the pocket of his trousers. Like an idiot. As though no one had ever taught me how one was supposed to behave with foreigners. And then I left. It was a defeat. A year later that hare was standing on my doorstep. ‘Are you a complete idiot, Yuri Ilyich,’ I asked him, ‘or only half of one?’ ‘Call me whatever you like, just don’t stick me in the oven!’ he replied cheerfully. ‘So, will you let me in? I’m a hero, by the way! I got permission to enter the country. My parents didn’t even scold me. Almost.’ I sat him at the table in holy terror. A man from Germany had come here. Burst into my apartment. Why? ‘Shall I pour you something?’ ‘I drink everything that begins with S: tea, schnapps, spirit, champagne.’ And lowering his eyes: ‘Tea.’” “So you got married, I assume,” I interrupted. “And more than that — when I brought Yura into this house…” — saying house, Koneva gestured toward the walls surrounding us — “my parents told me I was a fool. He sat down at the piano. It was out of tune. And he played. My father told me then that he had never heard anything more beautiful in his life. Konev taught at the conservatory. I was transferred first to diplomatic communications, then to the archives — to sift through the bones of repression victims. In the mornings he never ate breakfast. Only drank tea. A great deal of it, constantly. Terribly bitter tea — two cups at a time, strong. I used to tell him: ‘You’ll ruin your liver!’ He would nod. And sometimes he would stare at me with those eyes of his. Brown. And begin singing something… ‘you’re the dawn that raises for me…’ At thirty I gave birth to Olya. A late child. She’d come home from school — stubborn as her father. A little horse! Right from the doorway: ‘Mom, I’m hungry!’ And he’d answer: ‘Wash your hands!’ One time Olya got angry, planted her hands on her hips: ‘I’m not Wash Your Hands, Papa! I’m Olya!’ He nearly choked laughing. Scooped her into his arms and carried her off to the bathroom.” “At forty-five — acute heart failure. The times were troubled. Maybe they could have saved him. But back then nobody cared. I raised our daughter. When she entered university, I sold that apartment. Moved here. Even the piano stayed behind. My daughter now lives in Germany with children of her own. I used to visit them once a year. And all the while I kept thinking — perhaps someday I’ll see my streetcar named Desire in a museum.” “It’s… very beautiful…” was all I managed to force out. ¹ my dear grandmother (Spanish) ² thank you, miss (German) ³ excuse me (German) ⁴ speaks only German (Spanish)