American variety show: Sniper Elite

Chapter 186 Carolina Carolina
Ashley scrutinized the mute man.

With her pink and white highlighted hair, black T-shirt under a gray women's jacket, slim-fit jeans and sneakers, her overall look resembled that of someone who frequents the streets.

The mute woman extended her hand: "Just call me mute. Of course, if you don't like that, you can call me Jasmine."

She smiled slightly: "I rarely tell this name to others."

Ashley shook her hand, nodded, and asked, "Are you working for my husband?"

The mute man shrugged: "I find him quite pleasing to the eye, and I'm happy to do things for him."

She said casually, "So, yes, I'm working for him."

Ashley smiled and said, "Then you're one of us."
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new York.

The Tarkovsky Ballet Theatre stands in the night, its neoclassical building adorned with gilded reliefs of ballet dancers.

This theater, which migrated from Russia, has taken root in New York like a transplanted Siberian birch tree.

Beta stood in front of the theater, where ticket stubs scattered by audiences during the day still remained on the granite steps.

He and Katalia had both walked out of here: the rehearsal halls inlaid with one-way mirrors, the fighting arena with its specially made cushioned floor, and the underground passages that were always filled with the smell of pine resin and blood.

He specifically chose to come during closing time.

Beta opened the car door, with Ashley and the mute following behind him.

The brass railings of the ticket window are oxidized and have mottled patterns.

A Russian woman sat by the window, the smoke from her Kazan cigarettes blurring her wrinkled face. Her fingers were pressing keys on an old-fashioned calculator.

“The performance is over.” Her English, tinged with a Volga accent, ash fell onto the ledger. “I’m sorry. If you wish to see ‘The Dying Swan,’ please come again tomorrow.”

Beta leaned against the ticket window, tapping her fingertips lightly on the windowsill, and said in Russian, "New hairstyle, Katyusha?"

The woman suddenly looked up, and the tobacco she was holding between her fingers began to fall in ash.

When she saw those icy blue eyes and pale golden hair, a smile bloomed on her wrinkled face: "My God! It was you, Little Beta!"

She switched to Russian and said, "Oh, now I should call you Salong. What, have you come to see the 'female director'?"

Beta nodded: "Tell Grandma I'm here, open the door."

The woman sized up the two women behind him: "You can go in without any problem, but who are they?"

Beta introduced them: "Ashley, my wife; the mute, my partner."

“You and your wife may go in.” She pushed open a hidden compartment and took out a brass key. “As for this business partner, please wait in the reception room. You know, rules are rules, even if you are the grandson of the ‘female director’.”

Beta took the key: "Understood."

The woman added, "Katalia is back too."

Beta was slightly surprised. No wonder she hadn't seen Katalia today; it turned out she had also returned to the theater.

“Is that so?” Beta said.

The woman pointed to the door: "Go in."

Beta led Ashley through the archway, and the mute's figure disappeared at the end of the side corridor covered with a dark red carpet. Two staff members in black uniforms led the mute to the reception room.

Ashley's fingers involuntarily tightened as the double doors of the performance hall opened.

Above the twenty-meter-high dome, tens of thousands of diamond-shaped sound-absorbing structures, like an inverted forest of red stalactites, gleamed matte under the dim wall lights. These installations silenced the entire space, swallowing even the sound of breathing.

Looking out, tiered red velvet seats descended from the highest point of the Baroque arcade, finally stopping at the golden railing at the edge of the orchestra pit. Beta led Ashley along the central aisle, the ballerina reliefs carved on the armrests of the seats distorted and deformed in the shadows.

The entire performance hall was empty except for a lady sitting in the front row, while a lone girl on the stage kept spinning around, repeating ballet movements.

The girl was about eighteen years old, her pale face soaked with sweat.

Bathed in the blinding spotlight, she spun wildly on one foot. Her snow-white ballet tutu billowed as she crashed heavily onto the teak floor, the sound of her bones striking the wood with a dull thud.

"Continue!" came a female voice from the front row.

The girl trembled as she propped herself up and resumed her pose. As she spun again, stray strands of her golden hair clung to her sweaty neck.

When she fell again, her lips were bitten until they bled bright red.

"continue."

Beta led Ashley across the seats.

They approached the lady sitting in the front row. Her white hair was neatly styled in a bun, and between her fingers, adorned with emerald rings, was a tortoiseshell cigarette holder, from which wisps of smoke rose from the slender cigarette.

That was Carolina, the "Director," Beta's grandmother.

Twenty-three years have passed, and it seems that only wrinkles have been added to her face. She still sits in her usual seat with the gilded trim.

Like a reenactment across time and space, there is always a girl on the stage spinning, falling, getting up, and repeating the cycle.

When Beta and Ashley walked up to her, Carolina glanced at Beta sideways. "Kataria's back too, and you're back too. What, is today some special day?"

A muffled thud echoed from the stage as the girl fell heavily onto the teak floor once again, the sound of her knees hitting the floor particularly clear in the empty theater.

Carolina didn't even lift her eyelids: "Continue!"

Beta introduced her softly, "This is my wife, Ashley."

Carolina then turned her head and carefully examined Ashley: "She looks like a woman who can help you do great things."

She nodded in satisfaction: "Not bad."

Beta smiled and sat down in the seat next to Carolina, gesturing for Ashley to sit down as well.

"To receive such praise from you," he said, his fingertips tracing the velvet armrest, "it shows she is truly extraordinary. You know, even I only deserve the word 'okay'."

Carolina's gaze remained fixed on the stage: "If you could have half the ability of your father."

The cigarette holder in her hand swayed slightly: "I will naturally give you the praise you deserve. But as you are now, you don't deserve any better evaluation."

"Speak," Carolina turned her face. "You brat, what's the reason for this sudden visit? It's not even your monthly greeting day yet."

Beta said, "If I told you I'm here to ask you for people back, would you teach me a lesson on the spot?"

Before she could finish speaking, Carolina's slap landed with a whoosh.

With a crisp "smack," a clear handprint immediately appeared on Beta's forehead, and the capillaries under his skin gradually turned a rosy red.

"What do you think?" The old lady withdrew her wrist, and the emerald bracelet clinked together.

Beta rubbed his burning forehead and smiled helplessly.

Carolina was always like this, seemingly harsh to the point of being cruel, never holding back when she slapped him. But in reality, from childhood to adulthood, this seemingly cold grandmother had never truly refused any reasonable request he made.

(End of this chapter)