A boozing, sex-obsessed writer finds himself employed by the
Catholic Church (an institution he loathes) to proofread a 1,100
page report on the army's massacre and torture of thousands of
indigenous villagers a decade earlier, including the testimonies of
the survivors. The writer's job is to tidy it up: he rants, "that
was what my work was all about, cleaning up and giving a manicure
to the Catholic hands that were piously getting ready to squeeze
the balls of the military tiger." Mesmerized by the strange
Vallejo-like poetry of the Indians' phrases ("the houses they were
sad because no people were inside them"), the increasingly agitated
and frightened writer is endangered twice over: by the spell the
strangely beautiful heart-rending voices exert over his tenuous
sanity, and by real danger after all, the murderers are the very
generals who still run this unnamed Latin American country."
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