This show is a portrait-memory of childhood written in four hands (two hands that do not stand still; another two that accompany and observe them), in which there is room for fear, risk, the street, a dog that barks (and maybe bite) and a grandfather at the window able to protect us from the corner of his eye.
“Kermit, why are you fucking?” Asked my grandfather Elísio.
“Because my name is Caco, Caco, Caco …”, I said to imitate the echo.
My name hurled against a mountain would break in a thousand pieces. I mean, in pieces. It may not be the most respectable name in the world. A name that is a piece of a broken thing. But it’s mine.