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Nikola Tesla (Никола Тесла; 10 July 1856 – 7 January 1943)

Dream: Living as wandering French chefs on a boat isn't going very well for us. We're poor. My partner, some bearded man from the Dordoigne wants to shave but keeps getting shocks from the boat's shoddy electrics. He looks as miserable as only a poor French chef can. I try painting a picture on the side of the boat. A jolly scene depicting two men, like us, one in a yellow sombrero. People love it, they flock to see it and want to buy it. Our money problems are over! I cry. But then we realise we can't sell the painting as it's part of the boat. I go for a walk up the river and find a film crew, a TV gardening programme that are creating a Nikola Tesla memorial garden. It's in a gloomy slate-filled cavern and I think to myself that nothing much is likely to grow in here. No, I'm told, this tree has been specially bred to thrive in slate mines. Oh right, I say. We dig a hole, plant the tree, then haul a massive carved Tesla head up and under the waterfall. I admit it looks impressive. Tesla would have liked this, I say, as if I know this for a fact. Water pisses over Tesla's stone head and he looks grumpy, pulls an expression of annoyance and falls forward, face-planting on the cavern floor and cracking his big face in two. I'll, um, come back later, I say as the TV producers stare at it aghast. Back on the boat and someone has bricked up all the windows and put out a red light, I appear to be running an opium den cum brothel. I look around for my partner, pushing past all the bodies in the dim sweaty light. I finally find him. Wash me! he says, I'm filthy. I take a cruel, stiff yard brush and set at it. As I briskly scrub certain areas gems and gold flow out of him. We stare at the treasure. Our money problems are over! I cry.