[ Rau’s gloved hands come together briefly, the deliberate one-two-three echoing in this quiet place; his lips flicker into a slight, wry smile, just for an instant, and his eyes crinkle minutely under the mask. He’d call out the drama-llama aspect — yes, yes, acta est fabula, plaudite, princeps — but Rau is nothing if not self-critical and, well, pot meet kettle. ]

You played your part well.

[ He puts his chin in his hand again, this time in deliberately-choreographed thoughtfulness. His voice is light and even, but there's no trace of the smile. ]

Still, the genre seems to have slipped away from you. You were never one for tragedies.