I see my hands. They are stained with oil. Old cars are around me. Apparently I’m working in a garage. Alone.

There’s some annoyance in my sleep: should I change jobs? But there are obscure liabilities. This is not my dream. A sort of a junk movie.

I’m sure I’m handsome and manly. I search for a mirror and whistle something.

Powerful blows at the gates which open upwards slowly. Red-hot stripe of the sun-tide crawls the floor.

The customers are from the 30s. The blonde man remains in the car. The miniature girl comes out. She smokes a cigarette squinting in the sun.

Seems like I’m hearing jazz and realize – if the music stops I will be shot down. I know this pair. The girl is Bonnie Parker.

I know how they will die. She will turn 23.

One of my friends in St. Petersburg bought herself an old soviet government limousine. ZIM or something like that. Every little gap is filled with sand. Sort of bullet-proof doors.

It is possible to die in sleep. So I answer in good English that I recognize their faces; that I have no money in the garage but I point out the idea of car doors filled with sand. I’m showing them where I can put the sand in.

“Not bad”, says Bonnie (I will never be able to forget her voice),”but where would we get so much sand, my boy?”

“In a fire-protection bin” – I smile and want the blond guy to see that.

I’m going to the bin. Car’s door slammed. Maybe he’s got out. It’s hot in the car.

At last it’s summer.

Text: Anton Adasinsky
English text editor: Jennifer Williams
Photo: Elena YarovaYa, Roman Dubinnikov
Photo design: Elena Yarovaya

Dimmer is his name.

He just appeared before us as a common coordinator.

However, he could be anyone: scout, drug dealer, president, dancer,
seller of oranges, singer or ship’s captain. First encounter at the
airport – we see the proud silouette next to the car resembling
Tovstonogov’s profile. Scared a bit we approach him but the figure
instantly transforms itself to Louis de Funes. A light tumble and we
are heading toward the hotel already, laughing and crying.

A boy grown up in the streets of the Brazil Carnival. A jester and an
acrobat. In the old days – the star of Brazilian circus, and now – a
grayish bird, Dimmer. He plunged us into the night life of Brasilia.

None of us have seen him in all his height. Just in details. The
eyes, hands, flexible spine, flying eyebrows. He is everywhere and
nowhere. Roma apprehended him as a giant, Max saw a decrepit old
man….

Middle of the night. Knock on the door…

“Anton! Antonio!”
“Who is there?”
“It’s me – Dimmer”
“What’s happened?”
“Anton, thank you for the beautiful show, I’m so happy you are here…
and the public is so happy, and please come again and more… and so on…
but this is my last job here at the festival. My Voice is calling me.
I have to confess to the world, I need to record my LP “Penetrations”.
This is a musical where I play the lead and actually the only
role. It’s a large show. Whole Brasilia must be involved.

I will sit in a box and starve. There is a hole. The box is upholstered with fur.
Every resident of my beloved city must put his head in and look me in
my eyes. Every one! And if even one will not come to my box, I
will die. I’ve calculated. I can last about a month, 3 seconds per
person. The music will be written by Syd Barret. It doesn’t really
matter that he’s dead. Since I was a kid I rolled the “Dolly Rocker,
Dolly Rrrrrrrr…” under my tongue.” (He showed me how exactly he did
it).

“I would be very pleased if you would shout tomorrow – Hey, hey!
Goodbye, Dolly Rocker!”

In the morning Dimmer wasn’t the Night Guest anymore. We said goodbye
to each other, chilly.

Farewell Brazil. Goodbye Carnival. Goodbye the “red” Dimmer, even if
there was no you at all…

Text by Roman Gabria, Max Didenko, Anton Adasinsky
English text editor: Jennifer Williams
Photos by Elena Yarovaya, Maxim Didenko, Alisa Oleynik, Elena Shtykova
Photo design by Elena Yarovaya

The 29th of August will come and we shall take seats in our bus and immediately visit everything: Loch Ness and the Sharmanka Theatre in Glasgow, and the House of Sir Walter Scott, and the Museum of Feathers and.. and… or so DEREVO thought to itself at the beginning of August. Then there were the twenty four performances of KETZAL at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe. On August 29 the disciplined but half-dead of tiredness DEREVO approached the bus. The keys weren’t there. We searched for them but not really intensively and went back to sleep…

We dreamed five dreams, fragments I’ll try to tell.

Anton.
A doctor’s room. The right hand must be amputated. The question is – what should be left? They suggest some stump. I don’t like the idea. I don’t want to have anything at all up to the shoulder. So it would be much more theatrical. During the discussions I cannot stop myself gazing at the view behind the doctor’s back. There is a hole in the wall and there is a stage. I see KETZAL. Di is dancing in place of me. I weep.

Shtyck.
She’s lying sideways in a puddle. The water is soft and oily. She doesn’t dare to raise her head, because her face will remain in the water.

Buda.
She’s flying down towards a green field. It’s starting to rain. She
flies amidst the raindrops and with the same speed.

Di.
Di is driving some airplane. The gunner is pressing his back against the back of Di. They are like Siamese twins. They fly somewhere in the night. Suddenly – it becomes very bright all around – they are caught in a ray of light. Then – waiting for the shot. The back of the fellow becomes warmer.

Ga.
It’s bright and noisy. Lots of everything and everything is very fast. There are five suns in the sky and the clouds are swiftly flying over in circles. Several faces are approaching – all have small evil moustaches. I need a flag – thinks Ga, of course a flag! It’s not good – going to the Pole without a flag…

Alisa fell asleep in a bath, frozen and remembers no dreams.

Max was looking for the keys.

Photo - Anna Bogodist, Di, Alisa and/or DEREVO