The Vine Basket Page 4

  Six

  IT WAS PAST NOON when Ata announced he would go to the mill to collect the bags of ground corn. Ana went to the orchard to gather the last of the peaches, overripe now, not suitable for sale at market. She would dry them. A few, she promised, would be made into peach juice—a treat for the family. Mehrigul was to help Chong Ata.

  She went to his workroom and knelt quietly at his side, watching his hands build the core for a new basket. She thought to move him out to the yard, into the sun, for the earthen floor of his room was cold and unwelcoming. But he was deep at work—his hands, not his eyes, guiding his movements. His hands still made good baskets, but they seemed no longer to be infused with the creative spark that once set his weaving apart from others’, making his baskets the most highly valued at market. Perhaps Chong Ata knew this.

  The core completed, Mehrigul handed Chong Ata a willow branch from the pile that lay beside him. She watched as he wove the shoot in and out of the long willow rods that spread from the core, waiting to hand him the next branch.

  “I have news, Chong Ata,” she said, “that will surprise you, as much as it surprised me.”

  Chong Ata nodded. He had heard. “Yes?” he said.

  “I made a grapevine basket last summer that Memet and I tied on the donkey cart. A foreign lady at the market bought it . . . and she wants more.” Mehrigul hesitated. “Is it wrong for a girl to make baskets? Ata said it’s only men who are the craftsmen.”

  A smile crossed Chong Ata’s face. He stopped weaving. Held his work upright with his bare feet as he reached for Mehrigul’s hands. Stroked her fingers.

  “It is the tradition of our people that men carry on the craft of their fathers, but it is you who have magic fingers, Granddaughter. A special gift. I have watched you. It is you who could carry on the family tradition, not your father or Memet. I’m pleased that you felt ready to make your own kind of basket. I’m proud of you.”

  “But Chong Ata,” she said, “I don’t know what to do. I don’t even have a knife to work with. Even if I did, I’m not certain I can make anything else that’s good, that the lady will like. And I don’t know when I’ll find time. The new baskets must be ready in less than three weeks.”

  “You will borrow my knife,” Chong Ata said. He reached inside his coat and pulled his knife from its battered leather sheath, his Yengisar knife. It had been handcrafted in the town of Yengisar, where for hundreds of years the secrets and techniques of making these knives had been passed down from generation to generation, from father to son. It was the most simple and beautiful knife Mehrigul had ever seen. The finely etched pattern on the brass handle, the silver blade, spoke of the skillful Uyghur craftsman who had made it.

  “Use it now,” Chong Ata said. “I can do without it for the rest of the day.”

  Mehrigul bowed as he passed it to her and kept her head low as she forced her next words out. “Ana does not know about my basket . . . and I can’t tell her. And Ata . . . he must not know that I’m doing this work.”

  “There is trouble?” Chong Ata asked.

  “I can’t explain, but please don’t say anything.”

  Before going to the grape patch, Mehrigul went inside the house to Ana’s sewing box. She cut off a thin strip of white cotton cloth—so little that Ana couldn’t possibly notice—and hid it and the sheathed knife in the deep pocket of her pants. To avoid meeting Ana, she walked down the lane to the back of their land.

  On the right-hand side, across from the grapevine patch, was an old, neglected stand of bamboo that seemed to belong to no one. It had been a secret hiding place for Mehrigul and Memet when they were young children. No one could find them when they snuck deep inside and sat in the small clearing they made. She would go there now to tie her cloth.

  It was more difficult than she remembered to push her way through the thicket of bamboo culms, some tall and straight and as stiff as small tree trunks, others slender, arched and supple. The old, broken culms tripped her and blocked her passage, but she soon found the special place she and Memet had made. It was overgrown now, and she pulled and tugged until she had made a small clearing to mark the spot again.

  Mehrigul took the cloth from her pocket and held it close to her heart as she searched for the right culm. The bamboo would carry her wish, for there was no tamarisk tree nearby where she could leave her cloth. The tamarisk held more power than the bamboo. Like her Uyghur people, it knew how to survive the drifting sands of the desert, the tree’s deep roots anchoring it against the fierce winds. For now, though, it was the power of the secret place she had shared with her brother that she must trust.

  She chose a tall, slender culm, one that reminded her of a willowy branch of tamarisk. She tied her strip of cloth—her token—to the topmost part of the culm so that it would sway in the breeze, the better to be seen by God.

  “Please send me the favor that my hands might make beautiful work. I want to make something special. And . . . please give me the courage to carry on,” Mehrigul whispered, then stood in silence. Not because she believed God would listen to her and give her an answer but because she felt so at one with her people, who believed in the power of such tokens.

  Mehrigul knew that if she was to fulfill her prayer, she must be like a stem that swayed with the winds; she must learn to bend but not break. To yield, and yet endure.

  Seven

  MEHRIGUL QUICKLY FOUND THE grapevine branch she’d tucked back into the thicket. She pulled it full length and cut it from the trunk. With a deftness that surprised her, she trimmed away the leaves and outgrowths, knowing that the sharpness of Chong Ata’s knife made it possible but pleased at her own skillfulness with the knife. She searched for branches that same size and kept cutting and trimming until she had collected an ample bundle. Then she made another, less tidy pile: thick branches for handles, skinny ones for braiding.

  “Now what, Mehrigul?” she asked herself.

  She sat between the bundles and lowered her head to her knees.

  She had no memory of how she’d begun the cone-shaped basket. Memet had handed her a few pieces of vine. Her fingers had just worked and twined and twisted and woven until there it was—a basket that held a stem of cotton bolls and decorated the cart.

  Her hands were unsteady as she reached to pull five branches from the pile. She laid them in front of her. Studied them. Ran her fingers along the stems. Nothing but long, brown sticks, she thought, with joints every so often where there had been leaves or smaller branches. Here and there a springy tendril grew from a joint. She’d been careful not to cut the tendrils off, thinking they would add charm to her basket.

  She stroked the branches.

  She closed her eyes and stroked them.

  No magic came.

  She opened her eyes again and still saw nothing but plain branches. She also saw that the sun was fast approaching the tops of the Kunlun mountains, or that part of the sky where she knew the tops to be. The wind had come up, blowing a sandy haze across the oasis, half hiding the sun, which sank lower and lower. It would soon disappear, and there would be no more time for her to work.

  Mehrigul put all she’d learned from Chong Ata out of her mind. Picked up five branches and folded them in half. She cut a piece from the thinnest vine she’d gathered and tied it around the bottom fold so they would stay together. Then she laid the branches out on the ground. There were now ten rods stretched out from the center tie, looking like a big spider web. Mehrigul took her shoes off and used her bare feet to help hold the rods down in an even pattern. Her feet were smaller than Chong Ata’s, but they served the purpose.

  She needed some kind of core before she began to weave the sides. Even spider webs had a kind of center. Taking short pieces of thin vine, she began to tie the rods together two by two. She changed the pattern when she made a second round, tying rod two to three, four to five, until she came to ten and one. On the third round she went back to one and two together, three and four together, until she came again to
nine and ten.

  Enough core, she decided. She bent the branches skyward and wrapped her legs around them, holding them up. She grabbed two long vines and, using them together, began to weave them in and out of the ten rods that would frame her basket. She worked fast, spreading the rods slightly each time she went around. Picking up new weavers as she needed them.

  Mehrigul worked at a frenzied pace. Not stopping. Trying not to think about whether what she was doing was good or bad. Her hands seemed to go wild again as they had that day with Memet, knowing what they needed to do to make a basket that was good for nothing but to look at. She loved it when the wispy tendrils showed up, looking like wiry worms sticking out from the sides of the basket.

  When the top of her basket was as wide as her spread-out hand, she paused. Picked the basket up, turned it back and forth. It was cone-shaped, like the other one. Absolutely good for nothing. But hadn’t Mrs. Chazen given her one hundred yuan for just such a useless thing?

  Tomorrow she’d borrow Chong Ata’s knife again. Trim and bind the basket. Add a small handle. Then make another that had some purpose—one that could hold peaches and still be a bit different. She’d try to do that.

  She gathered her bundles of cut vines and took them to the bamboo grove. Her work must be kept as secret as her token. Going deep inside, she laid the vines at the side of her clearing, between sturdy stalks that would protect them from the wind and the sand. She brought in her unfinished basket, then covered everything with a few old and broken culms that lay scattered on the ground. No one ever came to the bamboo grove, but just in case . . .

  Before Mehrigul started down the lane, she gathered a few bunches of leftover grapes she’d found hidden deep in the vines. She picked up fallen walnuts along the way and added them to the pouch she’d made from her shirttail. This would be the excuse for her absence—she’d been foraging for food. The grapes, when dried, would make a few more handfuls of raisins for them to eat during the winter. She’d crack open the walnuts and add the meats to their supper.

  A smile crossed her face as she took one last look back at the bamboo grove.

  Now both she and Ata had secrets.

  Eight

  PLEASE, ANA, GO WITH Ata to market. Just this once. You may have some friends left who’ll stop by when they hear about your baked squash. What am I supposed to tell them when they ask for you? ‘Where’s Aynisa?’ they’ll say.” Ana had wandered over to the earth oven where Mehrigul stood, perhaps having some recollection that she should be useful.

  Ana gave no response, nor had Mehrigul expected one.

  Mehrigul was waiting for the last batch to be baked before loading it onto the donkey cart. She had started the baking the day before. The squash crop was abundant this year, and now was the perfect time for harvest. They should make good money today.

  It was Mehrigul’s task to build the fire in the bottom of the pit and to keep adding wood until it burned down to glowing hot coals. She covered the coals with a thick layer of green twigs to form a nest for the squash she had picked and washed. The squash were large, so only two or three fit in the oven at a time. Ana managed to appear when it was time to throw in her special ingredients—wild onions and a weed she never named but that she said had been used by her family since far back in time. The pit was covered by more green twigs and a layer of flat stones and left for hours.

  With that batch cooked, Mehrigul would start over. She had worked late into the night and had begun again before dawn. Soon Ata would harness the donkey and it would be time to leave.

  “Ana, please,” Mehrigul pleaded again. If Ana went, she’d have many hours to make baskets, with no fear of being seen or called upon to work. And she hated the thought of being alone with Ata.

  Ana stood with her hands clasped, her head slightly bowed. It had been years since she’d gone to market. Mehrigul knew Ana was embarrassed by their poverty. Most of all, she could not bear the pity of family and friends when she had no gifts to bring to them on birthdays or at weddings or funerals. She had no more pieces of the precious cotton she had brought with her from her village to give away when she made visits, and was too ashamed to go empty-handed. She no longer went gifting and wanted no one to bring a gift to her, for she could not spare the few nuts, or sugar cubes, or small loaves of naan she was expected to give in return. Ana no longer belonged to the world she’d once known and had withdrawn into a bleak and colorless existence. Mehrigul wondered if she even remembered why she didn’t want to go to market.

  Ana had become even more weary of life since Memet had gone. Hadn’t they all lost a part of themselves when he left? But instead of helping with the extra work, Ana now had her headaches and spent more and more time huddled in the dark corner of her platform.

  Mehrigul took a good look at Ana standing there—her eyes dull, her body drooped as if she wanted to descend into the earth. Having the best baked squash at the market would never be reason enough for Ana to go.

  She pressed her mother’s arm. “Help Ata with the cart. I’m changing into my school skirt,” Mehrigul said, and headed for the house. She knew that she herself would never, ever give in to the world Ana had chosen. She’d go to market today and every Wednesday in her skirt, even if it was worn to a rag by the time she got to return to school. Her scarf would be tied in back. Today she’d sell Ana’s squash with pride.

  The market was busy. Even before noon, leftover skins from sold squash slices piled high on the cart and spilled over the side to the ground. It pleased Mehrigul to see how customers young and old scraped their teeth along the rind to get the very last taste, threw the rind away, and asked for more. It was Ata who cut the squash. The money collected went into his pocket.

  In midafternoon, after the business of the day had peaked, a group of men came to see Ata. They moved a distance from the cart so Mehrigul could not hear what was said, but she could guess. They were probably planning how to get more money to drink and gamble away, or maybe discussing how much money their daughters might be worth if they could send them to work in factories.

  One by one, she saw the men glance in the direction of the animal mart, where crowds still lingered among the unsold sheep. They must have spotted a spy, for as quickly as they had come together, they dispersed, blending into the milling crowds.

  Her father told her nothing when he returned. Nor did Mehrigul ask. He lifted a squash from the pile, one of the biggest, and cut it into twelve wedges. He ate a piece. “Your ana cooks the best squash,” he said, wiping his beard and mustache clean with the back of his hand. “Use the knife to cut up more, if you need to.” He picked up his knife and buried it among the uncut squash that lay on the cart. “I’ll tell people we have some left and that they’d better come over soon, or it’ll be gone.”

  “Do you have to go now, Ata?” Mehrigul asked, making her voice as calm as possible. Whether he was off to gamble the money in his pocket or to meet with the men again, no good would come of it.

  His answer was to walk away. “Remember to buy mutton for Ana,” Mehrigul called, hoping some reminder of home would keep him from trouble. Surely he knew the risk.

  Her father flipped the back of his hand at her and hurried on.

  When she could unclench her teeth, she grabbed a slice of squash and ate it. Wiped her mouth with her hand, wondering why she cared if he got caught.

  It surprised her when several women came by for squash. Had Ata been true to his word? The women asked about Ana, and Mehrigul told only how busy she was—with Lali and all.

  Another woman appeared. Mehrigul had noticed her lingering about the neighboring carts. Except for her white jacket and fancy scarf, she looked much like the other women, but Mehrigul knew who she was. She was the wife of the local party leader. A Uyghur, no more trusted than her husband.

  When Mehrigul was free, the cadre’s wife came over and examined the squash as if deciding whether or not to buy a piece. “Your teacher tells me you no longer go to school,” she said, still lo
oking at the squash.

  Mehrigul kept her head down, too. She couldn’t let the woman see the hatred that seethed inside her.

  “It’s true, isn’t it?” The woman moved closer.

  “Yes . . . yes,” Mehrigul said, struggling for control. Be calm. Think. Act like Hajinsa—not Ana. She pulled in a deep breath and lifted her chin. “I’m helping my family for a while—during harvest. I have no intention of giving up my opportunity for an education or my chance to become more proficient in Mandarin. I know that is my key to a successful future.” Mehrigul shot her words straight into the face of the cadre’s wife.

  The woman did not back away. She narrowed her eyes. Looked intently at Mehrigul. Kept looking. Waiting.

  A numbness crept inch by inch up Mehrigul’s body as she strained to bring in more than tiny gasps of air. She must hold her gaze. She must!

  Finally, the cadre’s wife backed away. “We’ll see, my dear,” she said. A lopsided grin crossed her face. “I’ll keep track of you.” Her hands rested on her hips as she puffed herself up. “Remember, if you’re not in school, it will be easy for me to arrange your papers so you can be sent down south to work in one of the big factories.” She shrugged. “We have our quota to fill, you know, and you’ll be much more useful to your family if you go.”

  She paused. The sickening grin left her face. “You’re not going to run away like your brother did. Right?”

  Nine

  ECHOES OF MEMET’S VOICE swirled through Mehrigul’s head as she watched the cadre’s wife slip back into the bustle of the market.

  Don’t be taken in, Sister. Don’t be taken in. Be careful, Sister, Memet had sung to her just before he left.

  Mehrigul shivered at the memory. It had been the end of market day. She and Memet sat on the edge of the cart as they headed home. Not saying much, Memet calling out to the donkey now and then when he went too slow. They’d had a good day, but Memet was on edge, sliding off the cart, jumping on again. “If Ata makes a deal to send you far away to work in a Chinese factory, don’t go,” he’d said suddenly. “He may try to make you do it. Some of his friends who need money are sending their daughters away. A few of the girls even want to go. But don’t, Mehrigul. Just don’t do it.”