Free Rock and Roll Heaven by T. C. Boyle Page A

over the rope. THE GIRL wakes, shakes the grass splinters from her skirt, and sets THE BABY in the highchair before taking a seat at the table herself. Then PAN climbs down from the tree to join her, and THE YOUNG MAN steps from behind the rock and seats himself at her right. She smiles at THE YOUNG MAN. PAN pats her knee. THE DWARF sits and THE IDIOT pours the tea .
    At the rear of the stage the lacquered rocks begin to quiver—and THE MURDERER stands, massive as an avalanche. The others ignore him, busying themselves with the tea things. THE BABY slaps a spoon on its saucer and rattles its cup. THE IDIOT crouches over THE TOASTER, stage center, working the lever, slavering into the coils. THE YOUNG MAN glares at THE MURDERER, righteous indignation in his eye. THE STAG bleeds. THE GIRL looks at THE YOUNG MAN. PAN looks at THE GIRL. THE DWARD looks at PAN. THE MURDERER glares at THE YOUNG MAN and opens his mouth to speak .
    THE AUDIENCE leans forward .

CROSSINGS
    for Julio Cortázar
    On the second page the girl was murdered. Kelius read on. The murderer, as yet faceless, spread a plastic dropcloth over the tiles in the kitchen and drew a surgeon’s hacksaw from the lining of his overcoat. He began to disremember the body. In detail. Kelius was sickened, recalled to himself that it was only fiction, and read on, oblivious to the jolting of the bus. The murderer wedged the torso into a suitcase, arranged the limbs around it, packed tight, before the stiffness began to set in. It was 4:51. The girl’s father was due home at 5:00. Even now he was out in the street, striding along in the welter of heads and shoulders, handbags and briefcases. Kelius watched the glow of the kitchen clock as the murderer hurried to hide his traces. Suddenly the bus was stopping. Kelius looked up and his stomach clenched—they were at the border already. Half a page left in the chapter. His eyes rushed down the ranks of columns and letters. The murderer was rinsing his dropcloth in the shower, water running red against the porcelain. Then he rolled it up, jammed it into the suitcase, dropped the twin latches, hefted his burden and slipped out the door. “Señor.” It was the bus driver. “Es la hora de bajar. Estamos llegado a la frontera.” Kelius did not speak the language, but understood the gestures. He reluctantly folded back the page, tucked the book under his arm, and stepped out into the sun.
    There were men in uniforms with mustaches and automatic weapons. A gate, a little brick building, two jeeps, a truck, an old Ford. Kelius could make out the river off to his right, a metallic glint caught in the tentacles of the cactus. He followed the others into the building.
    It was absurd, he knew, but every time he went through this he felt that something would go wrong, that they’d somehow detain him, refuse to let him pass the border. He never dealt in contraband, and gladly paid duty on the things he brought back to sell in his tourist shop. And he had money. Still, he thought of the uniforms, the strange harsh language and arcane laws, the implacable yellow faces of the men with guns.
    Inside he showed his passport. The man behind the desk made a notation in his ledger and stamped the document. “Pase por la puerta allá,” he said, indicating a door at the far end of the room. Kelius followed the finger, beginning to sweat under the arm where he’d tucked the book.
    The door opened into a larger room with a long table. The other passengers were there. They were spreading their luggage on the table for the benefit of the inspectors. Kelius observed that the inspectors wore uniforms identical to those worn by the men outside. They were young and relentless. They neither smiled, nor spoke. They pointed, poked, sifted, rattled Kelius waited his turn. He rested a foot on one of his bags, the silver K like a mirror, then opened the book and resumed his reading. The story rushed back on him. He