The Almond Blossom Appreciation Society by Chris Stewart

nonetheless it would be best not to be too obvious about it.
    Getting this plan across to Hamid and his friends was by no means easy. I could sense that they still did not trust us – and why should they? Okay, we had shown them some kindness, but the water, the meal, it could all be some kind of trap. Eventually, though, we managed to persuade them that they should go and rest for a few hours in the cámara , an annexe where I work, up above the house, and where there are beds and couches for visitors. I would come up and fetch them when it got dark, then drive them to El Ejido or wherever they wanted to go next. Grabbing their bags, the Moroccans followed me up along the path that skirted the border of succulents surrounding the house. They kept their guard up and, at a bend in the path, where the view opens up to reveal the river bed, a strange and quiet commotion broke out.
    Hamid stopped in his tracks, one hand shooting out to prevent the others moving forward and whispered, nodding his head towards the track. The others crouched back, frowning hard at me. I stood rooted to the spot unable to work out what the hell was going on and then it dawned on me. They’d seen our scarecrow: a deceptively life-like hunter that a sculptor friend had erected in the field, as a folly and a deterrent to wild boar. He’d shaped the body on a wire frame, covered it with acrylic painted plaster, and to add an authentic touch had positioned a wooden shotgun in the cradle of his arms and a painted cigarette dangling from his lips. The clothes were my own cast-offs and, to keep the wild boar on itstoes, our model hunter’s neckscarf was soaked from time to time in Zotal , which, refreshed by dew, purportedly smells like BO.
    As soon as they understood their mistake, Hamid and his friends broke into smiles, but they were the brittle, hesitant smiles of people who still had much to fear and can’t give anything unusual the benefit of the doubt. ‘Try and sleep for a few hours if you can,’ I said, handing Hamid another pack of cigarettes Ana had provided. ‘We’ll leave at eleven.’ And I unlocked the door of the cámara and handed them the key.
    The Moroccans looked around the room in open-mouthed amazement, exclaiming at the number of books and beds and then, delightedly, as if finding a long-lost cherished item, picked up the djelaba and babouches – the traditional Moroccan cloak and slippers – that I had hanging on the back of the door. The impression that we were an alien people might have diminished a tiny bit. Once again we shook hands and bowed. ‘ Merci, monsieur. Merci ,’ said Hamid, holding on to my hand.
    I returned to Ana at the table and we talked over the plan. I felt deeply uneasy about El Ejido. ‘The gangs who run some of those farms are hardly better than the Mafia,’ I worried. ‘I don’t know if it’s enough that there are other Moroccans there. If only we could employ them here, and pay them decently and house them like human beings.’
    ‘We couldn’t sustain it, Chris,’ Ana replied. ‘We don’t have enough work for them, or the money to keep on paying them properly, and we’re just too exposed. Someone would be bound to denounce them sooner or later.’ But she hated the thought of El Ejido even more than I did. We had bothheard stories of the farms’ brutal treatment of Moroccan and Eastern Europeans, who, without legal status, were worked like slaves and casually subjected to fearful levels of toxic chemicals. Such is the price paid for Europe’s out- ofseason fruit and vegetables. However, we couldn’t think of a better alternative, despite talking the subject round and round until late in the evening, so at ten-thirty I wiped the grime off the car windscreen and went up to the cámara to gather my passengers.
    The room was empty. Our guests had already gone. I shouted into the gathering night – ‘Hamid! Hamid!’ – but nothing. It seemed that, when it came to it, they had decided