«Hello, my sweet Melania. This is my latest little missive. I know that you read these. You break the seal and read in secret from him, while smiling in a silly way and passionately kissing every tiny letter. How are you doing over there? I miss you very much, my heart. I wanted to tell you about a strange dream which I just had recently.
In this dream, we are together at home in the evening, sitting at the table. In front of me, on the tablecloth, is a plate of the borscht you cooked for me, while our cat is purring on your lap. I am hugging you, kiss your locks, and whisper in your ear all manner of silliness: all the things we’ll be doing in bed at night, all the tricks I taught you. All in all, a pastoral-type idyll.
Suddenly, on the TV, the news are showing your ex, Donald. Something about the opening of the wall on the border with Mexico. You are startled and tense, and say to me, “Look, pumpkin, how old he has gotten. All his hair has come out, he slumps, and in his eyes you can see emptiness and hopelessness. Right, and all because of me.”
You bite your lip hard, as if you are feeling at fault for this. I kiss you on the lips and pat your back as I comfort you. Suddenly we see on TV that a great big block of that Mexican wall behind his back has broken off and slowly falling on top of him. And he can’t even see it! You understand? He can’t see! Everyone is screaming, and you are screaming at the TV. You are up on your feet and yelling, as if trying to warn him. It’s no use! The wall falls and buries him underneath itself.
You grab me by the hands and yell,
“Honey, I have to go there!”
“There! To him! I have to be by his side for these last few moments of his.”
“But he has croaked already,” I try to intervene, “you can’t make it out alive after getting hit by a boulder like that. It’s his own fault with this wall – why did he insist that the Mexicans build it? So they built it, damn him.
You cry and tell me that I am insensitive and that I have no empathy, that I am still jealous and that I do not get you. I try ten times to tell you the same rubbish about the wall. That we are in the twenty-first century, honey, and nobody builds walls, and that it’s silly to try to wall yourself off. That only stupid on old people, who are trying to turn back time, can think this. That nobody can wall themselves off from anyone or anything: these are the times we live in – you can’t wall yourself off and you can’t beat the robots. This is like sticking your head in the sand.
You don’t want to listen to me, run off from the table, and are crying. You tell me that I am stupid, like all liberals, pack your bags, and get ready to leave. I fall at your feet and kiss your knees. You grab my hair, bend down to me, look into my eyes, while I look at you adoringly, see the spark of desire in your eyes, grab you and carry you over to the bedroom.
You see what silly dream I had! Sweetie-pie, please, swear to me that we are not going to fight like this for no reason. The devil may care what the differences in our convictions may be. Right? I know that you will soon learn to understand me and the tenets of liberalism. Anyway, somewhat saddened by this dream, kissing your feet as I go to sleep and thinking of you, I say “bye.” Write to me. I get lonely as I await your replies. Kisses to you, sweetie!»
Translation by Karina Avanesian-Weinstein & Tony Weinstein
Hello, dearest! How have you been? Did you get my previous letter where your ex was crushed by the Great Wall of Mexico debris? Do you love me as much as I love you, with butterflies and all?
I saw you both on TV the other day while having a burger patty and a beer. I’ll be honest with you, my heart bleeds as I watch him drag you around like a thing, like a money purse, like an accessory belonging to him just based on rich man’s property right, bought with money stolen from his people. A vain man who ordered the Arabs to remove their head garb to awaken their envy and lust. How many such beauties have they seen?
I have a feeling you are quite intelligent for such nuanced thinking. I’ll be frank though, I feel no jealosy. I trust your word that you haven’t slept with him in a while. Only in a rare moment of pain do I imagine him ordering you to report to the bedroom and hit the sack with him.
My sweet Melania, in your last letter you mistakenly confuse liberals and socialists, a monstrous fallacy, made up by angry conservadicks, a bunch of villains, crooks and brainless nobodies who know nothng about political science or political economy. Von Mises, the wisest, left no stone unturned in that nonsense and put everything where it belongs with scientific proof that the liberal shelf is exactly opposite to the socialist as its ideological antithesis, while conservatism rests on the other side of anarchy.
However, I’ll tell you all about it in detail once we are together, just as soon as our clandestine plan becomes reality and you flutter away from the old geezer to me, your one true love who shall open the gate of true Eden, not this gilded diamond-encrusted vulgarity in which he keeps you against your will.
I can hardly wait to see you in the nude modeling for the first canvas which has already been primed and prepared for you.
Translation by Alexander Markman
Hello, my sweet Melania! I was writing another little missive to you and here is what I thought of. I am feeling like Decartes and you must be Princess Elizabeth of Bohemia, to whom he wrote his little notes in which he enlightened her and taught her all kinds of little wisdoms. The only difference may be that, even though he was in love with her, he never allowed himself to be open and free. But you and I are modern people with progressive values and we live in a civilized age. We can easily talk about sex, including the oral kind. There is no need to enlighten you; in fact, your questions often leave me stuck and unable to answer. Is it really true that you guys never talk about all kinds of nonsense, philosophy among them? What do you in the evening, after work, glasses of wine in hand, but share with each other all your thoughts on the fascinating research articles which each of you read during the day? Don’t you get lost in arguing and critiquing all of the fine points? I can’t imagine that this does not happen: one of you has a light-bulb moment, leaps up, as if hit by an original thought, rushes to the library and grabs a book, only to throw the other on the couch, and hug and kiss, because you just can’t help but touch, hug, caress, rub, give a little peck on the back of the head, or touch the fingers or even the toes. Don’t ideas spew forth out of both of you as if out of fountains? Can’t you wait to write these down on paper, bragging to each other about the originality and the fanciful flight of your thoughts, as the Ancient Greeks did in their agonal competitions? Yes, “agonal” – not “anal,” sweetie. Or did you pour all of your creative powers into your new golden toilet? Or all of your short phrases bourgeois and vulgar, like those of the rotten Russian intelligentsia. Maybe you watch TV at night? Do you watch Russia Today or Ostankino Channel One? Or do you just watch your favorite shows – Dancing with the Stars for you and Maury for him? But that’s boring, my love, and it’s now wonder that you are going berserk. Don’t worry, dear: I am not going to make into an English lecture with you either. We are only going to start talking after we have fully explored each other’s bodies and satisfied each other completely. But think about it, honey: we’re not just going to bang all the time. I need time to draw your breasts, your lovely face, and your long legs. What are we going to live on? Not the old man’s SSI payments? With this, I hug you, my sweetie, and kiss every little part of your body in which your soul may reside. So long!
Translation by Karina Avanesian-Weinstein & Tony Weinstein