A Good Land. Nada Jarrar Awar
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not to have to rely on anyone.’
She pauses and looks up at me again.
‘It’s ridiculous, isn’t it?’
On the outside landing, by Margo’s front door, is a plant pot perched on a stand. Inside it is a small nest and four baby birds, their disproportionately large and bare heads quivering on thin necks, their beaks wide open.
‘This is amazing,’ I exclaim, peering into the pot.
‘They hatched only a few days ago. The mother comes and goes all the time, feeding them and keeping them warm.’
‘She doesn’t mind you being around?’
Margo shakes her head.
‘Not so far, anyway. But I do try to be discreet.’
She motions for me to go inside.
‘She must have sensed she and the babies would be safe here,’ I begin as we take our seats in the living room.
Margo gives me a quizzical look.
‘Not many birds escape being shot here, Margo, despite the laws against it. The mother bird obviously realized that you would not harm them.’
I hesitate.
‘I’m not surprised, though,’ I continue. ‘It’s exactly how I feel whenever I come here, safe from harm. You are the most tolerant person I know, Margo.’
‘I’m glad you feel that way, sweetheart,’ she says with a smile. ‘Sometimes, though, I feel you think too well of me for my own good. I have done some very foolish things in my life, you know, things that I’m not proud of.’
‘I can’t imagine you doing anything bad, Margo. Mistakes are different. We all make those.’
‘Some mistakes can be deliberate.’ There is a hint of impatience in her voice. ‘When I think now of how I treated my parents while they were alive, of all those I’ve hurt in the past…I’m not trying to shock you but to encourage you to see people as they really are, my dear, even if you do love them. Particularly if you love them as you do.’
I begin to protest but Margo interrupts me.
‘At one point in my life, just after the war, I thought drinking was the best way of dealing with my problems. I drank so much that some days I’d wake up not knowing what I had done the night before or who the man or woman beside me was and I came very close once to killing myself.’
I shake my head.
‘You were lost and confused, at the time, Margo. So much had been lost despite the fact that you had all fought so hard for things to change for the better.’
Margo reaches for her cigarettes.
‘People are not always motivated by the right reasons,’ she says quietly. ‘Sometimes we do what seem like brave things only because we are too afraid to stop and look more closely within ourselves.’
I frown and watch as she attempts to light her cigarette with shaking hands. I should have known you when you were young and needed direction and the world did not seem big enough to contain the despair that threatened to overwhelm you.
I remember telling Margo one morning that I was planning to take students from my writing seminar out for a drink. I explained that I occasionally met with students outside the classroom in the hope that we would get to know one another better. Often, in this less formal environment, I am struck by a promise in them that I had not been aware of before. I was pleasantly surprised when she showed interest in meeting them.
‘I would love for them to meet you,’ I say. ‘Would you like to come with us?’
‘Why don’t you bring them here instead? We can serve food and drinks in the living room and those who want to can spill out onto the landing for more space.’
‘There are only seven of them so I suppose it would work,’ I say. ‘But wouldn’t it be too much trouble for you?’
She shakes her head.
‘I think I would enjoy having young people around the place. Even if it’s just for one evening.’
‘Alright, but I’ll prepare everything we need, Margo. I don’t want you to go to any trouble.’
The weather is mild the evening of the party. When I arrive, Margo’s front door is held open with a large pot that contains a young jasmine tree only just beginning to flower.
‘Is that new?’ I ask, gesturing towards the plant. ‘It smells wonderful.’
I place two large plastic bags filled with food and treats on the kitchen floor.
Margo smiles and nods.
‘I’ve put out some bowls and platters on the dining-room table for you to put the food in, sweetheart,’ she says.
‘Thank you, Margo. I’ll need to make some room in the fridge as well. They’ll be delivering the drinks soon.’
It usually takes time for us to relax and shake off the air of classroom formality, but not long after the students arrive the evening’s conversations begin in earnest. When I introduce them, I can see that my students are impressed by Margo, one or two of them not knowing quite how to react to this diminutive, elderly woman whose eyes look straight into theirs, unflinching and knowing. I also begin to see that Margo relies on that moment of hesitation her demeanour imposes on those who meet her for the first time to study them closely, while their guard is down. Still, there is kindness also in her assessment, I think, an acceptance of whatever it is she sees because she harbours no compulsion to captivate or even change it.
Half-way through the evening, I find one of my male students sitting next to Margo in her usual spot on the floor. They seem deep in conversation and I am curious to know what they might be talking about so I ease myself into the armchair opposite and wait to be invited to join them.
‘Here you are, sweetheart,’ Margo says, looking up at me.
Youssef is the one student I feel I have not quite managed to get through to. He is almost excessively serious and visibly withdraws into himself every time I try to get him to talk. Yet his writing reveals a remarkably profound inner life for one so young, even if it does tend to lack focus, and often leads him to go off on tangents that are more confused than creative. I have met with him several times in my office to give him the direction he needs to achieve his true potential, but with no success.
‘This young man is telling me how much he enjoys your classes, Layla,’ Margo says. ‘He says he finds them inspiring.’
I try not to look too surprised.
‘Youssef is a good student,’ I say with a half-smile. ‘I’d just like him to be more willing to participate in the classroom and listen to my advice once in a while.’
Youssef turns to me and frowns.
‘I think he finds it difficult to feel completely comfortable around others, don’t you?’ Margo says, reaching out to pat him gently on the arm before turning to me.
‘Some things cannot be forced, Layla,’ she continues with a firm voice.
There is such sympathy in her eyes and such relief in his that I am momentarily taken aback and am aware of having missed something crucial in this intimate exchange. I stand up and walk away, feeling as if I have been summarily dismissed by them.
Later, as I finish off the last of the washing up, Margo comes into the kitchen and stands by me at the sink.
‘Please sit down, Margo. It’s been a long evening and you must be very tired.’
‘I had a good time, Layla. Thank you for bringing them here.’
I reach out for a dish towel and change my mind.
‘Perhaps I’ll leave the washing up to dry itself on the rack,’ I say. ‘I’ll