T he Theatre Parnasse had a rather nice bar, nothing spectacular, just a 
sort of living room off the main floor, with the bar itself recessed into one 
wall. The old furniture and pictures had been looted by the Red Guards and 
later replaced with post-Mao stuff that was not as fine. The management kept 
the booze locked up when the ractors were working, not sharing any romantic 
notions about substance-abusing creative geniuses. Miranda stumbled down from 
her box, fixed herself a club soda, and settled into a plastic chair. She put 
her shaking hands together like the covers of a book and then buried her face 
in them. After a few deep breaths she got tears to come, though they came 
silently, a temporary letting-off-steam cry, not the catharsis she was hoping 
for. She hadn't earned the catharsis yet, she knew, because what had happened 
was just the first act. Just the initial incident, or whatever they called it 
in the books.