Seeing double rows of elegant lime trees around the main square of his hometown of Colonel Pringles, our narrator
- who could well be the author himself, although nothing is guaranteed in a book by Cesar Aira
- suddenly recalls the Sunday mornings of his childhood, when his father would take him to gather the lime-flower blossoms from which he made tea. Beginning with his father, handsome & `black` & working-class, & his strikingly grotesque mother, the narrator quickly leaps from anecdote to anecdote, bringing to life his father`s dream of upward mobility, the dashing of their family`s hopes when the Peronist party fell from power, the single room they all shared, & his mother`s litany of political rants, which were used
- like the lime-flower tea
- to keep his father calm. Aira`s charming fictional memoir is a colourful mosaic of a small-own neighbourhood, a playful portrait of the artist as a child & an invitation to visit the source of Aira`s own extraordinary imagination.