In Favor of the Sensitive Man and Other Essays (Original Harvest Book; Hb333)
Page 15
My Turkish Grandmother
From the diary of Anaïs Nin.
I was travelling on Air France to New York via Paris when the plane ran into a flock of sea gulls and we had to stop at Athens. At first we sat around and waited for information, looking out now and then at the airplane. Vague news filtered out. Some passengers became anxious, fearing they would miss their connections. Air France treated us to dinner and wine. But after that there was a shortage of seats, so I sat on the floor like a gypsy, together with a charming hippie couple with whom I had made friends during the trip. He was a musician and she was a painter. They were hitchhiking through Europe with backpacks. She was slender and frail-looking, and I was not surprised when he complained that her knapsack was full of vitamins. As we sat talking about books, films, music, a very old lady approached us. She looked like my Spanish grandmother. Dressed completely in black, old but not bent, with a face that seemed carved of wood through which the wrinkles appeared more like veins of the wood. She handed me a letter she carried around her neck in a Turkish cloth bag. It was written in exquisite French. It was a request from her daughter to help her Turkish mother in every way possible. The daughter was receiving her doctorate in medicine at the Sorbonne and could not come to fetch her mother for the ceremony, so she had entrusted her to the care of Air France. I read the letter and translated it for my hippie friends. Although we could not talk to the old woman, it was evident that a strong, warm sympathy existed among the four of us. She wanted to sit with us. We made room for her, and she gave me her old wrinkled hand to hold. She was anxious. She did not know what had happened. She realized she would be late for her rendezvous in Paris. We looked for a Turkish passenger who would translate and explain the delay. There was none, but we found an Air France hostess who spoke a little Turkish. We thought the old lady would choose to stay with the hostess, but once the message was conveyed to her, she returned to sit with us. She adopted us. Hours passed. We were told that the plane could not be repaired, that the airline offered us a few hours of sleep in a hotel not too far away, and to be ready for an early flight on another plane. So the four of us were placed in a taxi, which caused my Turkish grandmother such anxiety that she would not let go of my hand; but her anxiety would always recede when she looked at the delicate features and soft eyes of the young woman painter, at the smile and gentleness of the musician’s face, at my reassuring words in French, which she did not understand. At the hotel, she would not go into her bedroom alone, so I left our connecting doors open and explained I was right there next to her. She studied this for a while and then finally consented to lie in her bed. A few hours later, we were called and taken to our plane. Because I was changing planes in Paris, I could not take her to the home of her daughter. I had to find someone who would. Questioning the passengers, I found a woman who promised to take her in a taxi to the address in the letter. She held on to my hand until the last minute. Then she kissed me ceremoniously, kissed my hippie friends, and went on her way. Having been in her fishermen’s village, I could imagine the little stone house she came from, her fisherman husband, her daughter sent to Paris to study medicine and now achieving the high status of doctor. Did she arrive in time for a ceremony which had to be translated to her? I know she arrived safely. Guarded by universal grandchildren, Turkish grandmothers always travel safely.
About the Author
ANAÏS NIN (1903–1977) was born in Paris and aspired at an early age to be a writer. An influential artist and thinker, she was the author of several novels, short stories, critical studies, a collection of essays, two volumes of erotica, and nine published volumes of her Diary.