The Vine Basket Page 9

  “The fire’s ready. Think you could bake bread for us?” Mehrigul asked, her voice coming out even nastier than she’d meant it to.

  For a moment Ana looked at Mehrigul, her mouth set in a straight, hard line. Then she picked up the bowl and headed outside.

  There was something in her mother’s expression, in the way she walked, that made Mehrigul regret the tone she’d used. Had hearing the truth about Ata begun to unlock the self-pitying stupor Ana had chosen to live in? Maybe this jolt of reality would remind her that there were problems greater than the bitterness she harbored toward her own sad existence. With that, and her teas, could she at least begin to deal with life again? Would she ever realize how much Lali needed her?

  How could Mehrigul possibly leave—be sent away—if Ana couldn’t even bake naan?

  Something had to happen. Soon. But right now there was only Ana to count on, and Ana had better learn to live in the real world, or Lali might end up dancing in a hotel. Or worse.

  Mehrigul knew that unleashing her own anger at Ana was not helpful. For Lali’s sake, she must try to support Ana, make her more useful. Besides, she was hungry. If Ana baked, she could get a few of her own chores done.

  By the time Mehrigul had sprinkled water on the earthen floors of their house and swept away the storm’s dirt and sand, picked weeds from the garden and fed them to the donkey, and collected kindling from the far reaches of their farm, Ana had managed the baking. Mehrigul sat with Chong Ata, relishing the taste of the fresh naan.

  The respite was short-lived. The field out by the peach trees was to be planted with winter wheat while Ata was away. Mehrigul hated the good-daughter part of herself that compelled her to do what Ata had ordered. It was to be done by his return, and today would be best. The ground had been softened by the rain.

  With steps of lead, Mehrigul headed for the shed to get the hoe. Ata should be here planting wheat. Not away selling her baskets while she had only five days left to make new ones.

  Resentment spread through her body like a weed, creeping into her mind as she headed for the field. What was Ata doing? Drinking? Gambling? Spending the money he made from her baskets?

  Mehrigul hacked at the earth with no intent to make neat and tidy rows, until sweat and tears clouded her eyes and she stopped. She dropped the hoe and walked away, heading for the stand of bamboo. She would make more baskets. She’d take them to the American lady. If the lady liked them . . . Mehrigul was almost afraid to think of the happiness that would bring her. It was so far removed from the life she lived right now.

  She quickly retrieved the bundle of grapevines she’d stored among the bamboo culms. Squatting in the middle of her hidden retreat, she placed them before her. For a moment she closed her eyes, sat quietly until the memory of the first cone-shaped basket she’d made came to her.

  “Choose five stems,” she told herself. “Long enough to fold and make ten rods.”

  One of the sharp ends scraped her palm. “Ouch.” She dropped the stem. Blood covered the cut. But she saw something that worried her more. Her hands were blotchy red and swollen from gripping the rough handle of the hoe. Would her fingers still be able to feel the hidden magic in a branch?

  Even if she worked and worked, it would be years before she could make a basket that had the beauty of the one she’d seen in the museum. She wanted so badly to learn, to try. Which would be worse—working in a factory where she could make no baskets at all, or working on the farm until her hands were ruined?

  With greater care, she sorted through the bundle, picking out the longest and most supple vines. Even as she set them aside, she knew they would not do. They could not be bent easily. They needed to be moistened, or she would have to cut new vines.

  Mehrigul sat back on her heels, motionless, with no good plan for making even a simple basket today—if she still knew how. A shiver passed through her. She squeezed herself into a tight ball, wrapping her arms around her legs, overcome with fear that her fingers had lost their power. The vines were old and dry, and they’d taken no form in her mind. Her fingers had no urge to turn unwieldy vines into something that might be good enough to hang from a donkey cart.

  She’d made so few baskets of her own. Had they really been special? Chong Ata had said he liked them, but maybe only to please her. Pati had liked them.

  The thought of Pati disturbed her. She couldn’t erase the picture of her walking away at the market. Her closeness with Hajinsa. Could Ana be right? Had Hajinsa schemed with Pati to steal her baskets? Hajinsa might do a thing like that, but never Pati.

  Mehrigul fell back against the bamboo. She watched, unmoving, as the light that filtered through the culms began to dim. Watched as the gentle flutter of the long, narrow leaves changed, carried now by a stronger wind from the north that brought cold night air. Her token stirred with the leaves. Perhaps the favor of her wish had been used up.

  No basket would be made today. And tomorrow? There were only four days left.

  As she emerged from the bamboo grove she heard Lali. “Mehrigul! Mehrigul!” her sister called, her voice like the howl of a frightened animal.

  Mehrigul hurried down the road. Rounding the bend, she saw Lali on the roof, turning in one direction then another, her hands cupped around her mouth, calling.

  “I’m coming!” Mehrigul shouted.

  Lali scrambled down the ladder and ran toward her. “Why weren’t you here to meet me when I got home?” Lali wailed. “You always are. No one knew where you’d gone.” She tightened her arms around Mehrigul.

  The sisters stood clasped together in the middle of the road. Mehrigul felt the racing of Lali’s heart. She hugged her sister closer, tighter. She’d thought it a blessing for Lali to be young, not to realize that they had a mother who could no longer cope. A father so often not there, or cross, or stumbling in his steps. But Lali did see and know all this, in her way.

  “You’re squeezing too tight, Mehrigul,” Lali said, but she didn’t try to pull away.

  “Oh, Lali,” Mehrigul said, holding her sister’s face in her hands, planting kisses on her forehead. “Wherever I am . . . I’ll always be thinking of you.”

  The pressure in Mehrigul’s chest grew almost to bursting when she saw tears streaming from Lali’s eyes. Mehrigul wiped them away with her fingers as her own eyes filled. Lali must not see her cry.

  She put her arm around Lali’s shoulders and guided her down the road. Lali’s arm slid around Mehrigul, her sister’s shirt clutched tightly in her fist.

  “You do know that you’re exceptionally clever, quite capable of taking care of yourself. Don’t you?” Mehrigul asked. “You must remember that.” She tried not to let the urgency of the message creep into her voice. Lali’s innocence scared her. Mehrigul had coddled Lali when she should have been making her tough.

  Lali was slowly bobbing her head as she chewed her lip. “Okay,” she answered in a tearful voice.

  It was a long moment before Mehrigul could find more words, and the strength to say them. Her powerlessness to change things was not useful to Lali.

  “Are you ready with my lesson for today?” she asked.

  “Um-huh,” Lali mumbled.

  “We better begin right now, then.”

  “All right,” Lali said, nodding agreement.

  Mehrigul could feel her sister’s fist loosen its grip.

  “Here we go. Jintian, wo men xue xi niao he shu. Today we study birds and trees . . .”

  Seventeen

  IT WAS SATURDAY. Lali was home, shadowing Mehrigul’s every move, every footstep. When the chance finally came to send Lali to the garden with Ana to pick a few vegetables, Mehrigul gently pushed her sister away.

  As soon as Ana and Lali left the yard, Mehrigul went to Chong Ata’s workroom. “I must talk to you,” she said, kneeling beside him. “It’s about my baskets. I . . . I no longer have them.”

  Chong Ata stopped weaving.

  “Ata took them with him to sell when he went on pilgrimage. H
e didn’t ask if he could, but I’m certain he took them.” The minute the words were out, the doubt, the thought that she had no real proof made her draw back. “Anyway,” she said, “they’re gone.”

  Her voice had lowered, but she knew Chong Ata had heard. It seemed as if a veil had covered his face.

  “I guess I don’t really know that he did. But if it was Ata who took them,” Mehrigul went on, “Ana said it was his right, because he would know best what to do with them. Only . . . I wanted so badly to take them to the American lady.” Her outpouring of words slowed.

  “I’m sorry, Chong Ata, to tell you this—to bother you. I thought I could just make more,” she said. “But . . . I haven’t. I’m not certain I know how anymore. My fingers . . .” Mehrigul couldn’t go on. She hoped Chong Ata didn’t see she was crying.

  He still held the basket he’d been weaving. His fingers began to work again.

  “There is willow in the bundle behind me that is moist and ready to be woven,” he said calmly. “Gather what you need to make a simple basket, as I do, for market.”

  Mehrigul’s fingers, which had failed her earlier, were again swift and knowing as she followed the rhythm of Chong Ata’s weaving. A wave of relief passed over her. Perhaps she had not lost her touch. “Six turnips will already fit into the base of my basket, Chong Ata. Is it time to start the sides?”

  “Yes,” Chong Ata said. “That will make a basket good enough for a woman to use in the kitchen.”

  Mehrigul smiled. Chong Ata was a wise man.

  Mehrigul was still of easy mind when Lali planted herself beside her. “Help Ana in the kitchen,” she told her sister. “All right, Lali? I’ll be right here. We’ll have time together later.”

  Lali stayed and chattered on. When neither her sister nor her grandfather paid any attention to her, she went inside.

  Mehrigul’s fingers kept their rhythm as she wove willow branches into the sides of her basket, worked the border.

  When Mehrigul placed her finished basket in front of Chong Ata, he took her hands in his. Held them. Held them until they trembled beyond control. Trembled until the fragile twine that had held her together gave way to a desperation she could no longer keep inside.

  Chong Ata’s grip tightened and held fast while Mehrigul fought to catch her breath through the sobs that shook her body.

  When her gulps for air turned into a deep sigh, Chong Ata loosened his hold. His fingers caressed her hands.

  “Your fingers have not lost their magic. What is still bothering you, Granddaughter?”

  Knowing that he cared, that he understood, she wrapped her arms around him in a hug of relief.

  “Oh, Chong Ata,” she said. “The American lady comes in four days. I have only three days left to make baskets.” She sat back on her heels. “Ata will be here tomorrow and then I’ll have to do it in secret. He’s forbidden me to make more baskets. He says it’s useless, that the lady won’t come back anyway.

  “But I still want to!” she cried. “More than anything I’ve ever cared about.”

  Chong Ata sat quietly, studying Mehrigul. His head shook slowly. “Cut new vines,” he said. “They will be supple. You can begin to work right away. Remember, they’ll shrink when they dry. You must account for that.”

  He put the knife that was at his side into Mehrigul’s hand. “Go now,” he said. “I’ll speak to your mother and keep your sister busy.”

  With an armful of fresh-cut grapevines, Mehrigul settled right where she was, in front of the patch. As she began to trim the vines, cutting off leaves, she decided to strip them, to peel away the shreddy bark. She liked the smoother feeling. She’d start again with a cornucopia, but the one she made today would be more refined, less rustic than the one Mrs. Chazen had bought. She was still careful to leave all the tendrils that grew from the leaf scars. The wispy spirals would add a special touch.

  When the rods and weavers, trimmed and cut to size, were in place before her, she sat back. She closed her eyes but did not pray. She listened for the sounds of silence, like the rustle of autumn leaves being stirred by the breeze. She breathed in the sweet smell of a rotting peach that had somehow escaped their harvest. This was the peace she needed to begin her work.

  Mehrigul opened her eyes. There, before her, was the peach orchard with its almost bare branches. To the far side of the orchard was the untilled field. And in the field was the hoe she’d cast aside.

  “No.” She shook her head back and forth. “I’ll make three baskets. Then I’ll prepare the field. This is my work, Ata!”

  Within a short time Mehrigul was passing weavers through the rods. Mindful of Chong Ata’s caution, she made a looser weave, trying to envision what it might become when the moisture left the vines and the basket became smaller. She was comforted by the realization that the cornucopia she’d made before had looked all right, when she wasn’t even thinking it might shrink.

  Her hands didn’t flow with the same grace she’d felt while working with Chong Ata. She thought that must be because of the more rugged vine. Willow was easier to move about.

  She ran out of weavers. She stopped, prepared more, growing anxious that it was taking longer than she’d hoped.

  Again, she squeezed her eyes shut. She must stop her heart from racing. Calm her breathing.

  “All right,” she whispered to herself. “Two baskets. I’ll try to make two.”

  Mehrigul picked up a weaver. There was a slight tremor in her hands, but her stomach rumbled and she thought the trembling could be caused by hunger. She knew how to go without food. That was not as hard as forgetting about the thrown-down hoe. About Ata. About the baskets she no longer had to show to Mrs. Chazen.

  Again Mehrigul forced herself to block out everything but the sounds around her—the faint buzz of a bee, the scampering of a squirrel. Loudest was the chatter of birds. Feeding. It was their feeding time—and she’d not made even one basket.

  Nothing mattered now but finishing. She had at least five centimeters to add before beginning the border. As quickly as she could, she worked the weavers. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. Round and round and round. She widened the rods as she came closer and closer to the top. Her hand cramped. She rubbed her fingers. Pushed on.

  The border. And finally, a small handle to hang it from. Her donkey-cart basket had that. Mrs. Chazen would want a handle. She bent a thin rod in half, attached it to the border. Plaiting the two parts, she created a short arch and fastened it to the other end.

  Mehrigul placed the finished work in front of her.

  Her basket looked like a bunch of ugly sticks.

  She folded her hands in front of her. Took another look. Much of the weaving was even. It held a good cone shape. Mehrigul grabbed the basket. She used the knife to fix spaces that were too wide or too narrow. She hid the loose ends that had escaped when she’d begun to use a new weaver.

  Again she placed the basket on the ground and stared at it. Then at her hands. She was confused. They’d done what she told them to. They’d made a basket. Only . . . not a basket worthy of a hundred yuan. She knew that.

  There was no grace, no beauty in what she’d made.

  “Why?” She asked herself the question but had no answer.

  She tried to envision the cornucopia she’d made for Memet. As she saw it more clearly in her mind’s eye, her face released into a soft smile. Now she knew. She had woven happiness into her basket for Memet.

  She looked at the cornucopia in front of her. Anger had been woven into this basket.

  Mehrigul raised herself from the ground and with the heel of her shoe crushed the basket into the earth.

  Eighteen

  WILL THERE BE SQUASH to take to market on Wednesday, Ana?” Mehrigul said as the family sat at breakfast.

  Ana finished sipping her tea, laid down the bowl. “The few that are left we’ll need for ourselves.”

  “What will we take, then? Chong Ata has baskets ready, but would Ata go with only baskets?” Mehrigul tr
ied to hide her alarm. They had to go to market. She hadn’t thought about what might happen after the harvest. Ata and Memet had always worried about that before. She’d been at school.

  “It’s time to sell cornstalks and husks,” Ana said. “Only”—she looked away—“your father . . . he’ll be upset. So much was scattered by the wind.”

  “Why didn’t you say so? We could have picked them up. Had it done before he returns today. He could be here any minute.” Mehrigul jumped to her feet. “Eat up, Lali,” she said. “We have a job to do.”

  “Who’d want to buy cornhusks?” Lali asked as she stuffed a large piece of naan into her mouth.

  “People who want food for their donkeys, or goats, or sheep.” Mehrigul thrust her hand out to Lali. Pulled her up. “That’s why I went to the trouble of peeling the husks from every single cob of corn we grew . . . and put them in a neat pile.”

  Mehrigul dragged Lali over to get their jackets. “So,” she said, “you and I are going out to pick up the stalks and husks that blew away.” She looked over her shoulder. “How about you, Ana? Will you help? Or sit all day with your tea?” Mehrigul hadn’t planned for her words to be cold-hearted. But if Ana was worried about how Ata would react, why hadn’t she been out picking up husks? She wasn’t an invalid.

  Or maybe she was, Mehrigul thought.

  Ana’s hands stayed clasped tight, in front of her.

  When Mehrigul stooped to grab the naan that was still at her place, she saw Chong Ata’s head bowed low. For his sake, she regretted what she’d said. But she wouldn’t take it back.

  She headed for the door.

  “We’ll count every time we pick up a stalk,” Lali announced. “That will be your lesson for today, Mehrigul.” Many of the stalks had been blown only a short distance from the neat, round stack. “Yi, er,” she counted in Mandarin, picking up those nearest and throwing them onto the pile.

  Mehrigul retrieved the stalks. “As they grow—bottom to top round the pile,” she said, replacing them. “That is the way it’s done.”