The day after, just like the one before, little Sophie was sitting in the solarium, watching Otis sculpt with extreme interest. His progress on the piece had been advancing at a break-neck pace. He was working on the woman’s hands, which seemed to have particularly caught Sophie’s attention.

“How am I doing so far, little one?” Otis asked.

“The hands look extremely life-like,” Sophie said. “Except…”

“Except?”

“Well, I distinctly remember her having pretty noticeable veins. I don’t mean to criticize, but… aren’t her hands looking a tad too smooth?”

“Right now, you are correct. But, y’see, if I sculpted the veins in, they’d look really wonky. What you wanna do is, once the sculpture is finished, paint the veins in a dark, green-ish color, using a thin brush — then, with the broad brush, apply a layer of skin-tone paint on top of it. That way, the skin-tone color will mask the green-ish color to a point where it’s only slightly visible, making it look like real veins!”

“I never would have thought of that. That’s brilliant!”

“You should read some books on sculpture if you’re interested, little one. I’ve got a few I can recommend to you.”

“I wish I could, but I don’t get much spare time these days. If any at all.”

“How so?”

“Well… when I’m not in school or rehearsing for the shows, I’m either taking my dance lessons, or in drama class, or practicing with my singing coach, or learning some new language for when we take the plays abroad, or —…”

“You do that every day? How are you not exhausted?”

“Coffee. Lots of it.”

“I don’t think that’s healthy for a girl your age.”

“On the contrary. See, I put almond milk in it, so it’s very healthy.”

Suddenly, they heard Cyril’s voice echoing through the manor’s hallways. “Sophie!” she said. “Where are you, dear?”

“I gotta go,” said Sophie to Otis. “I have to prepare for tonight’s show.”

“Oh, right!” Otis said. “I almost forgot about that. I’ll be there to see you!”

“What?” Sophie said as she turned back around. She had a genuinely confused expression on her face. “Why?”

“Your old man invited me.”

“Oh. Okay.”

* * *

Later that night, Otis stood in the theater’s main hall with a glass of champagne in his hand, waiting for the curtain call. A while later, the usher rang the bell, and the crowd rushed inside the concert hall.

The velvet curtain was lifted. Little Sophie came onto the center of the stage, looking uncomfortable in her own skin. She was accompanied by an entourage of backup dancers, all wearing soldier uniforms and carrying cardboard bayonets on their backs. The scenery seemed to depict the inner ward of a boot camp, with training dummies, tents, wooden fortifications, puddles of mud and all sorts of expertly crafted props. Soon after, the lights went out and the show commenced.

What Otis saw that very instant defied any semblance of logic. Her singing was grating, failing to hit any of the higher notes. Her steps, stilted and clumsy. Despite her best efforts, she kept lagging behind the backup dancers, who clearly outshined her. On top of that, she had an array of facial expressions that ranged from completely blank to an occasional, timid smile. Not that it was possible to see much of it, for the dazzling ray that came down from the limelight was so bright it almost hid her presence entirely, which probably wasn’t an accident either. She was the star of the show in title alone. Yet, the audience cheered for her and applauded incessantly. As Otis quickly came to realize, no-one was there to see a child actor perform in a play. They cared not for Sophie’s singing or dancing. They cared for what she represented. And what she represented was validation for their beliefs.

Out of respect for his patron, Otis made an effort to endure it until the very end. Once the show was finally over, the attendants got up from their seats and started to leave the theater, all boasting big smiles on their faces. Rooster and Cyril were the most ecstatic among them.

“What did I tell you?” Rooster said to Otis. “Isn’t she a natural?”

“I gotta go,” Otis said, trying his best to be polite. “Thanks for the invitation.”

Some time after midnight, Otis found himself sitting in a stall in the nearest pub he could find. He was downing a whole bottle of apple schnapps by himself, staring at the bottom of his glass. Try as he might, he couldn’t shake the grotesque display he had just witnessed out of his head.

At that moment, he heard a familiar voice calling his name. He turned his head around — Ludmila was standing right behind him. “Lulu?” he asked.

“Otis!” she replied.

“How did you know I was here?”

“I didn’t. I came for a drink too. There aren’t many pubs open this late around here.”

“Oh. Well, feel free to join me. I could use a drinking buddy.”

Ludmila took a seat on the stall next to him and ordered a bottle of red wine. “What’s on your mind?” she asked him.

“I met Rooster’s daughter,” Otis answered. “Sophie.”

“Oh,” she said, as if she knew exactly what he was about to say.

“That poor kid,” he continued. “They make her perform in these bizarre shows. People seem to love them, for whatever reason. When she’s not doing that, she spends her whole day in school or in many, many of her extracurricular activities.”

“I’ve heard about those plays. It’s sickening, if you ask me.”

“Thank you. I thought I was going insane for a bit.”

“You know what they say. It’s easier to sell a product, especially to kids, when there’s a cute, funny character attached to it. Even if that product is war.”

“Thing is, she hates it. All of it.”

“Did she tell you that?”

“She doesn’t talk all that much, but she doesn’t have to. Her eyes said plenty enough.”

“What did they say?”