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Last Night


I had a nightmare that the married translators of my favorite Russian novels, Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky, were getting a divorce.

I was inconsolable.

“You can’t!” I cried out, kneeling on the floor of the 19th century drawing room. “Who will translate Tolstoy’s The Death of Ivan Ilych?”

“We already have,” Richard mumbled, pacing before the hearth.

"Larissa? Larissa!…” I shouted.

She raised her eyes from the paper-strewn table and said, "What is it?"

“Larissa, please, you two have to stay together. You’re my favorite translators!”

She tossed her pen down and said, “I can’t make sense of any of this, can you, Richard?”

“It’s all legalese," he said, walking over and leaning over his soon-to-be ex-wife. "What does this mean, 2B?”

“Is there coffee? You," she said, pointing at me, "Yes you, the one dreaming us. Dream up some coffee so we can finish sundering this bond forever.”
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