The Vine Basket Page 6

  Shouldn’t she be out collecting their winter store of fallen branches and twigs for the brazier rather than making baskets? Who would do that if she were sent away? The baskets in her arms grew heavy with her guilt. Her use of time to make them was a luxury. How many more days of absence from school would the cadre and his wife allow before Mehrigul was picked to fill their quota of factory workers?

  They hadn’t come after her yet. And if she made even more baskets—and was paid a hundred yuan each!—maybe her family could even buy some coal. That would keep Chong Ata warmer than any twigs.

  Chong Ata cleared his throat, his hands idle, waiting.

  “I’m sorry,” Mehrigul said. “Maybe I’m afraid to show you my baskets, for fear you won’t like them.”

  Chong Ata said nothing. He closed his eyes and held out his hands. Mehrigul handed him her square basket. She watched as he traced the arches of the handles with his fingers. He held the basket between his hands, as if measuring the length of each side. He felt the bottom, tested the bindings. Then opened his cloudy eyes, squinting to bring an image into place.

  A shiver ran through Mehrigul’s body. His expression told nothing. There was no scowl, no smile. He looked at the basket for the longest time.

  “Mehrigul.” He finally spoke, calling her not Granddaughter, as he always did, but by her name. Was this a sign of Chong Ata’s new respect for her?

  “I’m proud that you have created a different kind of basket,” he said. “One I have never seen before. I believe the lady at the market will like it. It’s sturdy and well made.” He handed the basket back to Mehrigul, all the time nodding approval.

  Still she shivered, but this time from relief. “Thank you, Chong Ata,” she said. “I have another for you to see.”

  As she reached for the ribbed basket, her hands froze. Not that she’d heard anything. It was a feeling—not a sound. “I’ll be right back.” She sprang up, darted to the corner of the house. Her eyes searched the roadway. No donkey carts were in sight. She’d sensed her own fear.

  When her heart stopped pounding, she went back to Chong Ata’s side. “Please don’t tell Ata you’ve seen my baskets,” she said. “He thought the basket I sold was worthless and doesn’t want me to make more. He’d say they’re worth nothing more than to feed to a goat.”

  Chong Ata’s body curved into a ball of sadness.

  “It may be hard for your father to see beauty in anything these days,” he said. “You must try to forgive him. We are all grieving from the shadow that has been cast over our lives.” He rocked his body back and forth, letting his head drop onto his chest.

  Mehrigul tightened her hold on the ribbed basket. Forgiveness of Ata was not something that came easily to her heart. If Chong Ata knew, if he’d caught Ata gambling, would he say to forgive him? Weren’t they all grieving from more shadows than she could think of?

  Air seemed to flow into Chong Ata’s body again. He looked up, gave a long sigh.

  “I believe you have another basket to show me,” he said.

  Mehrigul eased her grasp on the basket and placed it in his outstretched hands. She would not let this rare—maybe her last—private moment with Chong Ata be spoiled with thoughts of Ata.

  She watched as he again closed his eyes, explored her work with his hands. Chong Ata’s white mustache curved around a broad smile as he fingered the cornhusks interwoven with the vines.

  “For many years now,” he said, “I have made only baskets for daily use.” His eyes open again, he held the basket close to his face. “You have made something that is uncommon.”

  “Do you think the American lady will like it?” Mehrigul moved closer to Chong Ata, examining the basket herself, trying to see it as if for the first time.

  “I believe she saw a particular quality in the basket she bought. Something she liked. And wished to have more.” Chong Ata lowered the basket, cradling it in his lap. “Baskets don’t have to all be alike. Cotton can be woven into plain cloth. If you change the pattern of the warp and the weft you get a different weave. If the threads are dyed you get different colors.”

  All of a sudden Chong Ata leaned his head back, shaking it, almost losing his big, black wooly hat. “Why, we cover the mud walls of our homes with bright, colorful cloth full of flowers and patterns,” he said. “That tells something about the nature of our Uyghur hearts.”

  Chong Ata picked up Mehrigul’s ribbed basket that still lay in his lap and held it out to her. “Our people should never lose the joy of making beautiful things with their hands—especially when so much else is being taken away from us.” He paused. Looked away, into the distance. “I know no reason at all why a basket has to be plain.”

  “Thank you, Chong Ata,” Mehrigul said.

  He gathered the willow spokes that lay at his feet and began again to weave. “Your father wants some of my baskets to take on pilgrimage. I must not be idle.”

  “Nor must I.” Mehrigul gathered her baskets. “I’ll store mine. I have a special place. I’ll be right back.”

  She slid cautiously around the corner of the house. The way was clear. She ran down the road toward the stand of bamboo, stirring up dust and dirt from the roadway and not caring.

  If only Chong Ata is right, she thought. That someone might like a basket just because it’s different. The American lady wouldn’t be coming back if she didn’t want more.

  If she comes back.

  Minutes later, Mehrigul was in Chong Ata’s workroom, removing the branches she needed from the bag of cut willow he kept there. The moistened branches had already turned from yellow to deep tan, a color that was Mehrigul’s favorite. She brought the branches close to her nose and drew in the sweet scent. It was Chong Ata’s smell—the smell of his newly made baskets—that always brought contentment.

  “I’m going to help you, Chong Ata. You’ll need to make one less basket today,” Mehrigul said as she settled next to him. “Then, when Lali comes home, we’ll go inside and have tea.”

  “Perhaps,” he said. “Your father leaves tomorrow. It’s important to make as many baskets as I can.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his Yengisar knife. He laid it between them.

  A wave of emotion swept through Mehrigul. She’d helped Chong Ata countless times. He’d taught her how to weave, bind the rims, lash on handles. Was the knife between them his way of saying she’d earned a full place at his side? She would keep the memory of this moment with her, no matter where she was.

  Mehrigul found comfort in arranging the long, thin willow branches in front of her like the spokes of a wheel. With a weaver in her hand she worked around the center to build the base. Willow was easier to maneuver than rough grapevines.

  Chong Ata was working on the sides of his basket, holding the spokes upward with his feet as he pushed and pulled his weaver in front of two spokes, then behind one, in front of two, then behind. He began to hum. Mehrigul heard no melody in the sound, only a pattern of rhythms, repeated over and over again as his fingers worked in and out and around the basket.

  Mehrigul began to hum, too, keeping most of the sound inside her. But somehow Chong Ata knew, in spite of his dull hearing. He stopped working and reached to pat her hand. Then, again, their fingers returned to work. Their voices joined. Two over, one under, two over, one under . . .

  Twelve

  IT WAS LATE MORNING when Mehrigul heard the rumble of a truck coming down the road—the sound Ata had been listening for since daybreak. Ata hurried to the road, waving so the driver would know he’d found their home.

  A screech of brakes ruptured the air as the truck shuddered to a standstill. Everything about the dusty, broken-down thing conveyed hopelessness to Mehrigul. How could such a wreck, with its taped-on headlights, ever reach Cow Horn Mountain? They might better have driven half a day in their donkey carts to get there.

  Mehrigul watched a large, burly man get out of the passenger side of the cab and walk to the driver’s side. He untied the rope that held the do
or shut, and the driver, a strapping young man, got out. Where would Ata sit? There was no room for him in the cab. Or in the truck bed, piled with crates and bags. Shoved into a corner were a black sheep and two black lambs. A young man stood beside them.

  Would Ata agree to ride in back with the animals?

  What if he didn’t go? She’d counted on the time to make more baskets.

  Mehrigul’s concern was forgotten when the two men from the cab walked into the yard, toward Chong Ata, who squatted there in his bare feet, working to finish another basket before Ata left. She rushed to her grandfather. “The men going on pilgrimage with Ata are coming to pay their respects, Chong Ata. Let me help you up,” she said.

  Guilt washed over her. Why hadn’t she thought to get him ready? Why hadn’t Ata? Guests always paid homage to her grandfather. It was Ana who would have remembered he needed a clean shirt, reminded him to wear shoes when visitors were expected. Today she was resting. She would not see Ata off, nor had she helped in the preparations.

  Still, there was dignity in the way Chong Ata rose, his eyes old and soft above his almost pure-white beard.

  The thickset older man reached Chong Ata first. “Assalam alaykum,” he said. “Peace be unto you.” His right hand rose to his chest, palm open. He gave a slight bow.

  Chong Ata offered the same gesture. “Wa alaykum assalam. And unto you peace,” he said, his gaze steady.

  The driver, the younger man, repeated the greeting and the raising of his hand, as did Chong Ata.

  “This is Osman . . . and his son,” Ata said, his voice curt and jarring after the gentleness of the greetings that had just taken place. “His other son is in the truck, tending the sheep they’ll deliver on the way to the mountain.”

  As Ata introduced the men to Chong Ata, he stepped in front of Mehrigul, excluding her.

  Anger flooded through Mehrigul, and she inched backwards. His rudeness embarrassed her. The bitterness in his voice stung. Was he slighting her because Memet was not there—had left Ata without a son at his side? Or to remind her of her place? A thankless girl he’d had to feed and raise, who’d then go off and marry and work in someone else’s household.

  Should Mehrigul dissolve into the earth because she’d not been born a boy?

  She slipped away and watched unobserved from the doorway. It pleased her to hear the words of respect Osman spoke to her chong ata, to see the regard he held for his elder cross his rough, leathered face. He seemed to know that her grandfather carried with him the history of the Uyghur’s struggles in this unforgiving oasis. That he was in the presence of someone who knew both the pride and the hardships of his people.

  “Mehrigul,” Ata called, his strident tone reminding her she was far from special. “Bring the goods in the house to the truck.”

  “Yes, Ata,” she said, in as cold a voice as she could find within her. She went to the kitchen to gather the bags she’d filled with walnuts and dried peaches from their precious store, the bag of naan she’d baked, and the raisins that Ata would take to eat on his journey.

  When Mehrigul emerged from the house, she collided with Ata, coming from Chong Ata’s workroom. Two bags were slung over his shoulder. She’d packed all the baskets into one bag. Why had he repacked them?

  “What are you staring at?” Ata shot the words at Mehrigul as he shoved her out of the way with his elbow.

  Mehrigul stumbled backwards, struggling to keep a hold on the heavy bags she carried. Why was he being so hurtful to her? Whatever she’d done, Mehrigul would take care not to anger him further. She headed for the truck, feeling oddly comforted by the presence of strangers.

  Osman took the bags from her. He gave no greeting. If Ata hadn’t acknowledged her as a beloved daughter, surely he had no obligation.

  After Ata placed his bags in the truck bed, everything was fastened down. Both of Osman’s sons now crouched next to the bleating sheep. Ata tied Osman’s door on the driver’s side and took the passenger seat.

  They drove away.

  There was no wave goodbye or instructions to take good care of Ana. No warnings about being lazy. No reminders to do chores on time.

  Chong Ata was still beside the house when Mehrigul returned from the road. He held out his open palms as Mehrigul approached. She laid her hands in his, and the strength and comfort of his gnarled fingers began to calm her.

  “I think my father was overcome with sorrow to see a man with two sons. Don’t you, Chong Ata? That Memet was not here beside him was more than he could bear. Wasn’t it?” She squeezed Chong Ata’s hands. “Do you think that’s why he acted so strangely toward me, that it’s really Memet who has angered him?”

  Chong Ata’s eyes were so moist with caring, she thought her heart would break open. “There is no excuse for his behavior toward you, my beautiful Mehrigul.”

  Thirteen

  MOVE FASTER, LALI. I know it’s early, but you’re the only help I have. Kwai dian. Quickly,” Mehrigul said in Mandarin, trying to sound like a teacher so her sleepy sister would liven up and be useful. The donkey cart was only half loaded and it was already time to go. There’d be no good spots left at market if they didn’t leave soon. Mehrigul shooed Lali ahead of her into the house, filled their bags with more squash, and returned to the cart.

  It had been long past the setting of the sun when Mehrigul decided she couldn’t bake another squash. She’d worked every minute since Ata left and still a few squash would have to be sold unbaked. Ana would be disappointed, but Mehrigul had insisted she not help. It was enough that she was going to market.

  Mehrigul went now to wake her. It was unusual for Ana to sleep so late, but the teas the doctor had provided did seem to bring her rest and comfort.

  “Time to get up, Ana,” she said, shaking her arm. “We need to leave.”

  The peace of Ana’s dreaming vanished as she sat upright. “Yes, I’ll go . . . I know I must. Why didn’t you call me earlier? I should be helping,” she said, and now she was standing, pulling her skirt from the clothesline above the sleeping platform.

  “Wear your red sweater today,” Mehrigul said. “For happiness.”

  Ana’s hands folded in front of her, that horrible gesture of resignation as she began to withdraw into her cocoon.

  Mehrigul took Ana’s hands in hers, placed them at her sides. “I’ll bring your sweater,” she said, heading toward the wooden chest where it was stored. “After you eat, I’ll braid your hair.”

  Ana’s eyes rose to meet hers, and for the first time in many weeks Mehrigul thought her mother had actually seen her.

  So little was going right this morning. How many times had Mehrigul watched Memet and Ata harness their donkey? The animal would just stand there, accepting the collar, the harnesses, the belly straps. Not for Mehrigul. He kept striking out with his front hoof, nipping at her with his foul-smelling teeth, as if to tell her she was doing it wrong. “Hold still!” she shouted, and he brayed so loudly she thought every donkey within three kilometers would come to his rescue. She tried gentler urgings and finally got everything on him that was needed. She was glad this had happened out of Chong Ata’s sight. He would have insisted it was his job, and it was not wise for him to do so strenuous a task.

  Ana and Lali were by the cart when Mehrigul led the donkey from the shed. They helped shove the shafts of the cart through the loops of the belly band and into the loops in the collar. Ana held the donkey while Mehrigul ran back to Chong Ata’s room, where he was already busy sorting and soaking willow branches for his day’s work.

  “We’ll return as soon as possible . . . when all the squash is sold,” she said. He nodded, kept on working. Perhaps only Mehrigul worried about his being left alone. “Take time for tea, Chong Ata.”

  “Yes, yes,” he said. “Go on. Get started before the sun climbs any higher.” He reached out, picked up a branch that had fallen from the pile, and flicked it with a dismissive gesture, as if to tell her it was all right to go.

  There was still a
bite in the air as they made their way along the narrow, poplar-lined roadway. The old donkey went at his own pace and Mehrigul saw little reason to interfere since he ignored all the commands she called to him and seemed to hardly notice when she used the whip. They passed sheep grazing at roadside, a woman carrying buckets of water hanging from a pole slung over her back.

  But it was far from quiet. Lali’s chatter was loud enough to drown out the high-pitched twitter of the wagtail birds. She’d been allowed to wear her red jacket, plaid skirt, red leggings, and white strap shoes even though she wasn’t going to school. Ana pulled Lali close to her side, their legs and feet twining and untwining as they dangled from the side of the cart. Lali told stories of her friends. She sent her childhood songs into the air in a sweet, high voice. Ana and sometimes Mehrigul joined in.

  The roadway became crowded as they neared the market, a steady stream of carts joining them. Mehrigul got down to lead the donkey. The sand and dirt stirred by her feet added a new layer of grime to her shoes and baggy pants. In spite of her good resolution, she hadn’t taken time to change to her skirt. And none of that mattered. There had been a rare moment of contentment for the three of them this morning that lingered in her heart.

  Lali’s songs got louder as more noise surrounded them. She began to sing in Mandarin, a song she’d learned in school. Mehrigul caught her eye and she stopped. Put her hand over her mouth. Lali was almost always good about remembering their rule. But Ana had heard, and Mehrigul supposed it was enough to remind her that Lali was part of the outside world—where Ana no longer belonged. Her mother quietly folded her hands in her lap.