Chlef Cherries
"Halima tends cherry orchards in Chlef's valleys. When agricultural buyer Marco arrives seeking premium fruit, she shows him sweetness that can't be exported. 'El halawa f'el ard' (الحلاوة في الأرض) - Sweetness is in the earth."
Chlef's cherries ripened dark as blood, sweet as first love. Marco represented European supermarkets.
"Premium quality," he declared. "We'll buy everything."
"Machi koulech lil bi'," Halima replied.
Not everything's for sale.
Her orchards climbed terraced hillsides, trees heavy with fruit.
"How much per kilo?"
"El kilo machi el mas'ala." The kilo isn't the issue.
"What is?"
"Wach teddi m'a el kilo."
She was substantial—stained red from harvest, body shaped by ladder-climbing and basket-carrying.
"Why won't you sell?"
"Nbi'." I sell. "Bas machi l'elli ma yestahlouch."
Days in the orchard taught him. Halima tasted each tree's fruit, deciding what was worthy.
"Hadi machi prête."
"It looks perfect."
"El thwehr ma ykafiych."
"Then what matters?"
"Doq."
She fed him a cherry. He forgot about contracts.
"El halawa f'el ard," she explained. Sweetness is in the earth. "Machi f'el apparence."
"How do you know which earth?"
"N'aych m'aha."
Night brought lantern-lit sorting, cherries gleaming like jewels.
"Enti t'amlihom wahdek?"
"El family." She gestured at photos. "Bas hadek..."
"Matoua?"
"L'Europe." She smiled sadly. "Thawsou el cherries bla el cherry pickers."
He stayed to help—first from guilt, then from something else.
"Marco..."
"Sah."
"Alache tabqa?"
"El halawa."
She kissed him with cherry-stained lips.
"Hada machi business," she warned.
"N'aref."
"W?"
"El halawa f'el ard."
She led him through trees to a blanket spread beneath stars.
"Hna nestrahu ba'd el khdma."
"Alone?"
"Tawa la."
She undressed in cherry-scented darkness, curves ripe as the harvest.
"Mashallah," he breathed.
"Thmar." Fruit. "Ana thmar."
He tasted her like evaluating sweetness—carefully, thoroughly, finding the perfect notes.
"Ya rabbi," she moaned.
"Aktar." He found her ripest place. "El halawa."
She burst beneath him, pleasure sweet as perfect fruit.
"Dkhol," she gasped. "El mawsem."
The season.
He entered her beneath cherry trees, and understood what couldn't be exported.
"El halawa f'el ard," she cried.
"F'ik."
"Fina."
Their rhythm matched the harvest—patient picking, careful handling, perfect timing.
"Qrib," she warned.
"M'aya." He ripened inside her. "El halawa f'el ard."
They came together, sweetness flooding them both. Marco held her through the harvest.
"El contract?" she asked.
"Torn up."
"Wach dir?"
"Stay."
His company found another buyer. Marco found something better.
"El acheteur?" Europe asked.
"Lqa el halawa."
Now he picks beside her, learning sweetness.
"El Europien w el fellaha," villagers say.
"El ard jab'tou," Halima smiles.
"El ard tkhlini," Marco agrees.
Some sweetness can't travel.