The Almond Blossom Appreciation Society Read Free

doesn’t matter a bit. I’ve got some books you can borrow right here in my bag and you’ve got all of the ones I’ve written on Andalucía. And there’s some pamphlets about the group, too – they’re inside the b-books.’
    Michael’s head almost completely disappeared into an ancient, scuffed leather briefcase. He emerged clutching a couple of books, and a few nondescript twigs which he stared at in amazement and then tossed aside. ‘You’ll be fine,’ he assured me, handing over the haul. ‘You’re used to giving talks and you read Spanish, don’t you? So at the worst you can just translate the gallery’s captions.’
    There’s something immensely encouraging about Michael, which makes a madcap scheme, coupled with the offer of an all-perks-included midweek break in Seville, seem oddly attractive. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I’m on.’
    ‘Well, of course you are,’ he clapped me on the shoulder. ‘That’s w-wonderful. They’ll be meeting me… um… you in the foyer at the Hotel Alfonso XIII at 10am on Monday and the first trip’s to…’ He rummaged among the papers. ‘Ah yes, the Giralda, quite exquisite and easy to explain. You just turn up and talk about the Moors. I’ll square it all with Jeremy, who’ll go with you.’
    And so it was that I found myself launched on a new career path, as lecturer on Andalucían art and architecture, shepherd to wealthy American art lovers, and Michael Jacobs impersonator. I strolled down the hill to the city and turned in at the doorway of the Librería Urbana to pick up the tools of my new trade.
    A slight feeling of nausea crept over me there, confronted by a shelf full of art history books, but I forced myself to get a grip and limit the search to the buildings we would be visiting in Seville. I would bone up on each subject the night before – a tried and tested measure that had got me through school (though admittedly not through any actual exams). Still, I had a whole four days ahead of me to get up to speed. It would be fine. These wealthy Americanswere bound to have more money than erudition. And thus I comforted myself as I drove out of Granada towards the provincial town of Órgiva and the remote patch of mountainside that I call home.

    ‘Who are these people, then, Chris?’ asked my wife Ana, leaning over my shoulder as I pored over the brochures that had spilled from Michael’s book. Porca, our parakeet and Ana’s familiar, seemed to echo the question in squawks from a new perch he’d made on the top of my art history pile.
    ‘Um, well, they’re all Americans and…’ I scanned the printed sheet again as if unwilling to take in the import of the words. ‘Well, it seems that they’re the Trustees of the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. Hell’s teeth! And they’re not just ordinary trustees either… They’re a sort of elite – they all cared enough about fine art to donate over a million dollars to the museum, which is what seems to have qualified them for a place on this jaunt.’
    Ana fixed me with one of her steady looks. ‘You can’t do it, Chris. It won’t work. You’ll just have to phone Michael and tell him it’s impossible. You could offer to help out a bit, but you surely can’t go through with this stunt!’
    She was right, of course. I needed to talk to Michael, and soon. But then again, I hate to let a friend down and I really do believe that most things will work out in the end if you sit back and let them. So I put the phone call off, got on with other chores and leafed casually through the odd art book while waiting for the kettle to boil or for Chloë to get ready for school. And before I knew it Sunday nighthad hurtled along, leaving me with no other choice but to do some last minute homework and present myself to the good Bostonians.
    Now, I pride myself that I can absorb books as well as the next literate being. But I am constitutionally unable to swot. As soon as I have to glean information for any real purpose, my