The Parnasse had been built by Europeans back when they were serious and 
unapologetic about their Europeanness. The facade was classical: a 
three-quarter-round portico on the streetcorner, supported by Corinthian 
columns, all done in white limestone. The portico was belted by a white 
marquee, circa 1990, outlined by tubes of purple and pink neon. It would have 
been easy enough to tear it off and replace it with something mediatronic, but 
they enjoyed hauling the bamboo ladders out from the set shop and snapping the 
black plastic letters into place, advertising whatever they were doing tonight. 
Sometimes they would lower the big mediatronic screen and show movies, and 
Westerners would come from all over Greater Shanghai, dressed up in their 
tuxedos and evening gowns, and sit in the dark watching Casablanca or Dances With Wolves. And at least 
twice a month, the Parnasse Company would actually get out on stage and do it: 
become actors rather than ractors for a night, lights and greasepaint and 
costumes. The hard part was indoctrinating the audience; unless they were 
theatre buffs, they always wanted to run up on stage and interact, which upset 
the whole thing. Live theatre was an ancient and peculiar taste, roughly on par 
with listening to Gregorian chants, and it didn't pay the bills. They paid the 
bills with ractives.