The Vine Basket Page 7

  The spot next to the wool seller was taken. Mehrigul led the donkey deeper into the market, searching for a place where lots of people would come by and be tempted to give their bellies a treat when they saw the rich orange meat of the baked squash and got a sniff of its oniony smell. What they earned today would be the only yuan they could count on this week. Ata would likely spend more on his trip than he’d take in. Mehrigul gave the donkey a hard yank as she pulled him into an empty space.

  The woman next to them had her cart piled high with potatoes and green and red peppers. She was already balancing her scale, weighing a few peppers for a customer. She seemed friendly enough, from all Mehrigul could tell. It was mostly her eyes and wrinkled forehead that showed under the yellow and red scarf she’d draped around her head. Ana had returned her greeting and appeared to be managing well when Mehrigul left to tether the donkey to a tree at the edge of the market.

  It was Mehrigul who was not at ease. She searched the crowds for any sign of the cadre’s wife as she hurried back to the cart. The woman seemed to do her dealings in private. Mehrigul’s best protection was to be surrounded by a crowd of people.

  By late morning brisk business was being done along the row of carts. Mehrigul had chosen their spot wisely. She’d not seen the party chief or his wife lurking anywhere nearby, and Ana’s squash was selling well.

  Lali was their salesman. “My ana’s squash is the best you’ll find,” she sang out. Then, when she’d lured a customer over, she whispered, “She has a secret recipe.” She seemed to know when she could take someone by the arm and bring him or her to the cart, where Mehrigul would slice a piece and haggle for the yuan. Ana sat in back on an overturned crate.

  Mehrigul was bringing more uncut squash to the cart bed when she saw the cadre’s wife approach the vegetable seller and pick out a few peppers. As her purchase was being weighed, she looked over and caught Mehrigul watching her. For an awful moment their eyes locked. With no change of expression on her face, the cadre’s wife took her bag of peppers and walked away.

  She had found out what she needed to know. Mehrigul was not in school.

  Business slowed by midafternoon. Mehrigul wanted to leave, for the crowds were thinning. She dreaded the thought that the cadre’s wife might come back. But there were still two squash to sell. Mehrigul lowered the price. Lali had tired of playing seller, and most of their customers were people who came by for potatoes and peppers.

  Half a squash was still left when Mehrigul spotted Pati on the path by the yarn seller, where she might expect Mehrigul to be. Mehrigul stepped into the lane and waved her arms, delighted to see her friend, until she saw Hajinsa with her, her red high-platform shoes gliding over the dusty ground.

  Mehrigul dropped her arms, but she’d been seen. Seen in her wrinkled and dirty peach-colored pants, her soiled shirt, her scarf tied under her chin. She pulled Lali in front of her, hoping her sister’s pretty red jacket and pure white scarf would be a shield.

  “Pati! Pati!” Lali called, running to throw her arms around her sister’s friend. Leaving Mehrigul, in all her humiliation, to watch them come arm in arm to the cart. Hajinsa shrugged and followed, a scowl on her face.

  Mehrigul pivoted and went to Ana. Brought her from the back of the cart.

  “It’s so nice to see you,” Pati said, and then Ana’s red sweater and Pati’s bright red jacket with the white buttons came together in a hug. Ana and Mehrigul had not touched their faces together in a hug for many weeks, many months . . . maybe longer.

  Ana smiled. There was too much red, too much happiness, for Mehrigul. She wanted only to earn a few more yuan and go home.

  A cheery “Hi” came from behind her. She turned to see Lali clutching Hajinsa, guiding her toward the cart, looking up at her as if she’d discovered an empress.

  Mehrigul erased all emotion from her face and went to Lali. She placed her hands on her sister’s shoulders and squeezed. Lali got the message, and whatever chatter might have come next broke off. She leaned back against Mehrigul.

  “I would like you to meet my ana,” Mehrigul said, stepping aside with Lali so Ana and Hajinsa faced each other.

  “Tinchliqmu? At peace?” Ana greeted Hajinsa in the traditional Uyghur way, her manner hesitant but polite.

  “Tinchliq! Siz-chu? At peace! And you?”

  Hajinsa had answered with the right words, but Ana’s eyes flickered, then lowered. “Tinchliq,” she said, finishing the greeting, her voice barely audible.

  Was it the way Hajinsa stood, her cocked head, her cold voice? She’d let Ana know in her greeting that Ana was as much a peasant as her daughter.

  “I’m going to take Mehrigul away for a moment,” Pati said, taking Ana’s hand in hers in a kindly gesture. “I’ll send her right back, I promise.”

  Mehrigul shooed Lali in Ana’s direction and followed Pati and Hajinsa a short distance. She’d seen a bag hanging from Pati’s arm and hoped it held felt pieces that might decorate her baskets. She wouldn’t let Hajinsa’s disrespect stop her from getting what she wanted.

  “How are you doing?” Pati asked, speaking English, and that, too, added to Mehrigul’s discomfort. She’d not had time to study English since Pati’s visit.

  “We have a great English teacher,” Hajinsa said. “She is getting CDs for me so I can study on my own.” She rattled on in English that had no meaning for Mehrigul but was surely meant to make her feel inferior.

  “Ah . . . about what I promised. Remember?” Pati interrupted, speaking now in Mandarin.

  Were they no longer to speak Uyghur? Was that only a language for poor farmers? Every inch of Mehrigul wanted to stomp away, but not as much as she wanted what might be in Pati’s bag.

  She forced a pleasant expression. “Of course I remember,” Mehrigul answered in Uyghur. She couldn’t help but notice, though, that Hajinsa crossed her hands behind her head and rolled her eyes. Then shrugged again in her infuriating way as Pati slipped the bag from her arm and handed it to Mehrigul.

  “Can we go, Pati? Is your errand done?” Hajinsa said. “If you want me to show you where to buy leggings with lace trim, we have to leave now. I can’t keep my ana waiting.”

  Pati nodded. Her eyes made quick contact with Mehrigul’s before she turned and followed Hajinsa into the maze of the marketplace, but Mehrigul didn’t know what the gaze meant. What she did know was that her best friend had moved on and was walking, if not arm in arm, at least side by side with someone Mehrigul did not like or trust, into a world that was out of her reach.

  Not even Lali’s songs comforted Mehrigul as their old donkey pulled them toward home. So what if she were sent away? Would that be much worse, Mehrigul wondered, than the life she must resign herself to here? How long before she’d become like Ana and need her teas to get through the day? She couldn’t imagine leaving Lali and Chong Ata, but might they be better off without her? If she sent money home?

  Suppose Ata did let her keep a little of the money from selling her baskets to pay school fees and allowed her to return to school for a handful of days. Then what? Come spring, there would again be much to do on the farm. More than Ata could ever do alone, even if he labored full-time.

  Mehrigul saw no future for herself whether she stayed or went.

  Fourteen

  AT FIRST IT WAS a low, moaning sound. Maybe Ana releasing some pent-up sorrow in her herb-induced sleep. Mehrigul burrowed deeper into her pallet, liking the warmth and the thoughts that filled her head. In a short time she’d get up, borrow Chong Ata’s knife, and head for the grapevine patch. Free at last from fear that Ata would find her. There were chores, but today she’d declared a holiday. She’d do nothing but make more baskets, fancier ones woven with the strips of blue and red felt Pati had given her. She had less than a week.

  The moans grew louder. Howling. Whistling now. From outside.

  Mehrigul sat up, trying to understand. Sounds like hundreds of beating drums pounded the roof, the mud walls.

  She rus
hed to the door. Struggled to keep it from flying open as she peeked out into a wall of swirling sand and dust. Coughing, choking as the fine grains invaded her nostrils and throat, stung her eyes. She forced the door closed and stood numb to the reality of what was happening.

  The gods of the Taklamakan Desert had chosen this day to send their winds and sands over the oasis.

  She spat sand and grit into her hand and blinked sand from her eyes.

  Then she heard a crash. Their roof ladder hitting the ground. What else was being blown away? Who’d take care of it? Try to stop it? Ata? Memet?

  Chong Ata! Mehrigul grabbed her clothes. She must help him inside before he tried to do it on his own.

  Lali’s whimpering drew her to their platform. “What’s happening, Mehrigul?”

  Mehrigul tucked her sister back under the bedcover. “The desert dunes are paying a visit. Reminding us we’re neighbors.” She brushed Lali’s forehead with a kiss before bringing the blanket over her head. “You’re safe, though. I won’t let the sand inside, only the bit that sneaks through the cracks. Go back to sleep. It’s still early,” she said.

  “I need to go to school.”

  “Not today. I’m bringing Chong Ata in. Your job is to make sure he stays. He’ll want to help outside. But he can’t, Lali. It’s dangerous for him. Get Ana to help. Do you understand?”

  “I do,” Lali whispered, already sitting upright, her eyes wide open.

  Mehrigul put on an extra sweater, then wrapped a silk scarf, the most tightly woven one they had, over her nose and mouth, tying it in back. She wound another scarf around her forehead, half shielding her eyes, covering her hair.

  Mehrigul slipped out the door into the opaque landscape, keeping her body skintight to the wall as she inched toward the door to Chong Ata’s workroom.

  Even in the darkness of the room she could see her grandfather huddled against the wall.

  “You must be with us, Chong Ata,” she shouted, hoping he could hear her through the noise of the storm.

  “There is much we must do,” he said as Mehrigul went to his side and helped him to stand.

  “Not now,” Mehrigul said. “Hold the rug over your face. I’ll lead you.”

  They crept back the short distance along the wall to the main door, Mehrigul feeling her grandfather’s reluctance to follow her. She knew how much he wished he could help.

  Lali was waiting inside. “Get the broom, Lali. Sweep the sand from Chong Ata’s coat.”

  Mehrigul looked at Ana, who stood motionless beside the kitchen platform. “Don’t just stand there, Ana. Please help. Do we need twigs? Water? Check for me. I’m going back out.”

  “Twigs,” Ana answered, turning her head away. “I’m sorry, Mehrigul. I’m trying to wake up. I know what is happening.”

  “Look after Lali. That you can do.” Lali was standing with the broom in her hand, looking as frightened as a lost chick. Mehrigul could offer no comfort to Lali, or Ana, or to herself. She had no idea what she should be doing.

  “Just stay in the house. Don’t let anyone follow me,” she said, nodding her head toward Chong Ata as she thrust the door open against the storm.

  Again, Mehrigul stuck close to the side of the house as she went to look at their ladder. Its top rungs had smashed against a pile of stones, but it was worth saving.

  She grabbed hold and began dragging it toward the shed. A sudden gust whipped at her as she rounded the corner of the house. She lay low to the ground, clutching the ladder, studying the storm, the direction of the wind. And through the narrow slits of her eyelids she saw streaks of yellow flying through the thick, gray air. Their dried corncobs, lifted from their rooftop storage by the wind and carried away over the yard, to the fields and beyond. Airborne kernels of food that were meant for their winter soups, cobs that might have fueled their fires. Gone.

  Were the peaches flying, too? Or swept into a corner, covered with so much sand and dirt they could never be eaten?

  The ruined food was all she could think of as she crawled, dragging the ladder, across the open stretch to the shed.

  It was her fault. Why hadn’t she read the signs of a coming storm the night before? Ata and Memet would have. Their food could have been saved.

  She knew why. She’d been caught up in her selfishness. What was more important than a good night’s sleep so she could rise early and finally get to her baskets? Her mind had been filled with visions of the new things she’d make—baskets with colorful red and blue strips of felt woven into the design. Not once had she listened for a change of sound in the wind, a distant stirring. Nor had she watched the patterns of the birds; they knew to fly toward the mountains, away from the approaching desert storm. The leaves on the willow trees would have been slanting upward, if she had only looked.

  Chong Ata should have known! Mehrigul stopped the thought. Let the pelting of sand against her face be punishment. Chong Ata could barely hear or see. It was not for him to have known. Nor Ana. She, herself, had given Ana a cup of the doctor’s soothing tea.

  The blame was Mehrigul’s. And it compounded by the minute. The donkey was kicking at the shed, braying, trying to break loose. Mehrigul gave a final heave to the ladder, left it under the cart, and rushed to find an old feed bag. Dodging nips and kicks, she pulled it over the donkey’s head and tied it. At least the worst of the sand would be kept from his eyes and nose.

  She found rope and lashed the donkey cart and ladder to a storm-bent poplar that stood beside the shed. There was nothing else to do. The pile of hay for the donkey had already been carried away. When the storm ended, he’d have to eat the sand-filled straw that had blown into a corner.

  For a moment, Mehrigul rested against the open lattice of the shed, resisting the urge to rub her eyes, to take in more than shallow breaths. Around her the sky, the ground, were a colorless blend of hurtling sand. Her world stopped a few meters from where she pressed against the wooden planks. Thoughts of other chores—things she should have done the night before—were of no help now.

  She picked up the pitiful handful of twigs trapped at the edge of the shed and began to fight her way back to the house.

  Lali ran to her when she came inside. “Wait,” Mehrigul said. She dropped the kindling, signaled with her hands. Lali stopped short, her eyes wide at the sight of her ghostlike sister.

  “Bring me my other pants, Lali. Okay?” Mehrigul said as she began to shed her sand-filled garments.

  As she reached to untie the scarves, she was surprised to find Ana at her side. “Close your eyes,” Ana said, helping Mehrigul remove the wrappings. “You must not let any more sand get into your eyes or nose.”

  Mehrigul felt a damp cloth wipe over her eyelids, her eyebrows, her forehead, Ana’s gentle strokes cleaning away the film of dust and sand that had come in through the narrow slit between the scarves. “Thank you, Ana,” Mehrigul said.

  “Change, then come have tea,” Ana said.

  Even after she removed her outer sweater and put on her other pants, sand pricked every inch of Mehrigul’s body as she moved to the eating cloth. She welcomed Ana’s caring and the chance to sit while Ana built the fire and brewed tea. Then, suddenly, Ana was behind her with the tea bowl. The smell of sulfur hit her nostrils for the first time as she reached to take the bowl from her mother’s hands. Ana had used precious bits of coal from their reserve to build a fire.

  For a while Chong Ata, Ana, Lali, and Mehrigul sat in silence, drinking tea and eating stale naan from the tin Ana placed in the middle of the cloth. The only sound was that of the shifting sands pummeling their home.

  Ana finally spoke. “Our food . . . on the roof . . .” Her voice told Mehrigul that her mother knew the truth.

  “Blown away. Ruined, I suppose.” Mehrigul heard her own voice, weak and pitiful. Her eyes stung and watered. Her mouth tasted like dirt. She had no more to say that would not be mean and hurtful. Feeling angry at Ata, and Memet, too, for not being here, seemed as useless as blaming the desert. Sh
e crawled to the side of the sleeping platform, leaned her head against the wooden frame.

  “Mehrigul,” Chong Ata said. He was beside her. “It’s rare to have a storm in November. They are expected in the spring, not now. Let us rest. When the wind calms we will know the damage.” He put his hand over hers. “Our people have chosen this land. We have learned to survive.”

  Chong Ata went back to the eating cloth, once again turning into a tiny ball. His eyes were closed, his lips moving. She thought he might be praying. Lali had crawled onto Ana’s lap, finding comfort. Mehrigul closed her eyes. It helped to take away the sting.

  “Come, look. It’s a miracle!” Lali cried, jumping up and down, then racing out the door.

  Mehrigul’s eyes were sticky. Crusted shut. She rubbed them gently as she rose and headed for the door.

  It was a miracle. Rain! After hours of sand, rain had come. They had no more than two or three days of rain in a year—a little over one centimeter in all, if they were lucky. And today it was raining!

  Mehrigul walked outside. She lifted her face to the gentle drops, letting the rain restore her body as it would restore the air and the land—if only it would last long enough to penetrate the hard-packed earth.

  Lali grabbed her hands. “Dance, Mehrigul. Dance.” She pulled Mehrigul round and round until they were twirling and stomping like a pair of featherheads.

  Ana and Chong Ata stood in the rain, too. Maybe, Mehrigul thought, this was what Chong Ata had been praying for, and Allah had answered his prayer. Chong Ata still had on his sheepskin hat, but his face was raised to the rain.

  The donkey brayed, perhaps not so much from joy as from hunger. “Okay, Lali, you fill the donkey’s bucket with water,” Mehrigul said, catching Lali’s hands, bringing her to a stop. “I’ll see what I can find for him to eat.”