The Vine Basket (16 page)

Don't be taken in, Sister. Don't be taken in.

Mehrigul couldn't stop the tears that overflowed her eyes. Her tears could flood their whole thirsty oasis, and it wouldn't make any difference or change the way of things.

T
HE EASTERN SKY WAS
streaked with first light as Mehrigul and Lali stepped outside to gather firewood and fill the kettle. Everything had to go right this morning so Mehrigul and Ata could get a good space at market, one that Mrs. Chazen and Abdul could easily find.

“Hurry, Lali,” Mehrigul said, handing her twigs. “Break these into pieces that fit into our stove. That will help Ana.”

Lali took a twig and began breaking it at the speed of a snail.

“
Hen kuai de.
Quickly,” Mehrigul said, which brought a pout and a great flouncing of shoulders. “No, Lali, you have to help. I can't do it all.” Mehrigul's voice was harsh. She turned so Lali wouldn't see the panic in her eyes, the anger at her sister for not moving faster.

Then she dropped her head, forced herself to take in long, deep breaths. “Oh, Lali, it's not you. You know nothing of what's happening. It's important for me to get to market as early as possible. Please do what I ask.”

Mehrigul swallowed hard, trying to calm her voice. Lali would only cry and become useless if she was frightened. “Let's hurry now,” she said. “Put the pieces on my hands. I'll carry them in, and you can get the water. You're strong. You can lug that by yourself.”

When Mehrigul announced that it was time to feed and water the donkey, Lali nodded without protest, and they headed for the shed.

Ata and Chong Ata were seated by the eating cloth when Mehrigul and Lali returned.

“Is that all the naan?” Ata bellowed as Ana laid a few broken pieces on the cloth.

“There are corncakes left from our supper that are for you,” Ana said, handing them to him.

Ata grabbed them with a grunt and said no more.

Ana poured tea. They ate in silence. Mehrigul dipped naan into her tea bowl but didn't try to lift the bowl to her lips. She concealed her bandaged hands from Ata as much as possible. He seemed lost in his own world until he finished his cakes. “I see you've fixed the bundles,” he said, looking at Mehrigul. “We'll load the cart now.”

Mehrigul kept her hands behind her as she braced herself. “I did not prepare the bundles,” she said. “Ana did.” She paused. “There are only enough for one load.”

He threw his arm out. “You'll load the cart then, while I have more tea,” he said.

“Mehrigul can't,” Ana said, “but I'll do it.” She rose slowly from her place at the eating cloth.

Ata jumped up. “What do you mean, she can't?”

“Her hands. They're injured. They . . . they need time to heal,” Ana said.

Please don't weaken, Ana,
Mehrigul prayed.
Don't back down.
Mehrigul got up and stood beside her. When Lali stood, too, Mehrigul knew it was too much. Their defiance would send Ata into a rage.

She grabbed Lali's hand. “Time for school,” Mehrigul whispered as she pulled her sister into the yard. “I know it's early, Lali,” she said as they headed for the road. “This morning we'll walk to meet your friends on their way. It was important for us to leave the house.”

Every muscle in Mehrigul's legs began to fail her as they moved away. Weak from fear of what could go wrong before they left for market . . . scared of what she'd find when she got back. She had to trust Chong Ata and Ana.

 

The donkey cart was hitched and half loaded by the time Mehrigul returned. Ata was doing most of the work, but Ana was helping. Chong Ata kept quiet watch from the yard.

“Change your clothes, Mehrigul,” Ana said as she walked by. “Your father will leave soon.”

Everything was too calm. Mehrigul changed quickly into her skirt and went to the workroom to get her basket.

It was still there. The cotton strap Ana had sewn onto the bag fit nicely over her arm. With her hands behind her, she could keep it out of Ata's view.

There was no time for words with Chong Ata. For a moment she stopped by his side, his touch filling her with the courage she needed to face a day with so many unknowns.

She headed for the cart, which was loaded high with long cornstalks that covered every inch of the bed and spread wide over the sides.

“You're pretty fancy for walking,” Ata said as Mehrigul approached. “But that's what you'll do.”

“My legs work,” Mehrigul said, then regretted saying it when she saw Ata's eyes narrow to angry slits. She must be careful. Ata wouldn't strike Ana, but Mehrigul could be punished for her disrespect and because Ana had come to her defense. She lowered her head, copying Ana's gesture of compliance. Her bandaged hands and her basket stayed firmly in place at her back.

Without words of leave taking, Ata started toward the road, leading the donkey. Mehrigul turned to nod to Chong Ata and Ana and followed a few paces behind.

Mehrigul hadn't thought how she could make the trip to market without Ata noticing the bag. Riding at the back of the cart, she could have hidden it under her skirt. Today there was no hiding place except behind her back. The powdery gray swirls of dust stirred up by the donkey's hooves and the cart wheels were unbearable, but she couldn't walk in front with Ata. Mehrigul lagged farther behind, hoping Ata would find no reason to talk to her. During their trips to and from market he was usually silent.

A new worry arose as they neared the market. Carts heavy and slow, carrying cut wood for winter fuel, choked the entrance road, piled up in front of them, and soon blocked the road behind them, too. Mehrigul was forced to go to the front of the cart or else be crushed against the cornstalks.

Suddenly, Ata was on the other side of the donkey, next to her, glaring at the bag that hung behind her.

Mehrigul's body tensed. She brought the bag to her side, the side away from Ata. Would he grab it? Smash it? “Oh, this,” she said before he could ask. She must not let him know how desperately she cared.

“Yes. That. What do you have there?” His arm shot out.

“Just . . . something . . . Chong Ata helped with. He thought it would be rude if I didn't have something to bring to the American lady.” What she said was not all a lie. She couldn't have made the basket without Chong Ata. With tiny movements Mehrigul tried to ease the bag from Ata's sight, but his eyes stayed glued on it.

He shook his head back and forth. “Do my words have no meaning? I told you to forget about your stupid baskets. Now it's your grandfather. Your mother, too. She helped, didn't she? That's a real pretty cotton bag you have there.” He smacked his fist against his leg. Then he closed in, crouching next to Mehrigul until his face almost touched hers. “Show me,” he said. “Show me what you've got that's
so
special the whole family had to help you, instead of doing what they're supposed to.”

It took all the strength she could summon not to move. Not to run away. She swallowed until she found a voice that could speak over her fear and words that might make him back off. “It's just another of those useless things,” she said. “Like before. You would know right away it was worthless, Ata . . . but . . . I was hoping . . . if the lady comes . . . maybe she would give us a few yuan for it.”

Ata was still beside her, but he hadn't grabbed the bag. Mehrigul hung her head. “I'm sorry I couldn't help with the cornstalks as you asked me to. I know you wanted to bring a second load. Maybe selling the basket will make up for the money we'll lose today because of that.” Mehrigul kept her eyes on the ground. She didn't dare look at Ata's face, but his body seemed to relax. Maybe he was thinking about the hundred yuan. She prayed he wouldn't make her open the bag.

“Well, good luck to you all. Let's hope your fancy lady comes and likes the basket. We need money. Make her pay for the bag, too,” he said, and turned his attention to the donkey, jerking his harness, urging him forward in the procession of carts that barely moved.

Ata shuffled ahead a few feet at a time, cursing. Then he began muttering at Mehrigul, who was forced to walk beside him as everyone crowded together at the market entrance. “You're as useless as your brother,” he said, “with your stupid basket. You were lucky once. That's all.”

A
TA PARKED THEIR CART
at the edge of nowhere. Near the tethered donkeys. Away from fruits and vegetables, cotton and yarn, bags full of colorful spices. In a place Mrs. Chazen would never come to.

“Set the price high,” he said as he wandered off.

“When will you be back?” Mehrigul called. Then she clamped her hand over her mouth to keep from screaming. Just once, couldn't he mind the cart and let her go?

Ata shrugged his shoulders in a dismissive gesture and continued a distance down the lane to a spot where men had gathered by a tree.

Mehrigul moved behind the stalks and pulled her scarf over her forehead, knotted it under her chin. It wasn't the same out here. There were a few men around tending carts filled with straw, but no women or girls to whom she might talk. She stayed as hidden as possible, her eyes fixed on Ata.

Osman and another man joined the group. Everyone stopped talking. Stood tall and formal.
Salams
were exchanged. The man turned and Mehrigul saw his face.

It was the cadre. Led straight to Ata by his friend Osman.

Was this it? The day the papers would be signed and she'd be sent away?

Tears streamed down Mehrigul's face as she stood watching. Her wish had been granted—she'd been given the three weeks' time she'd asked for so she could make a basket and bring it to Mrs. Chazen. That seemed so unimportant now. How could she leave Lali and Chong Ata and Ana? She wanted only to live quietly on their land, even if she was never anything more than a peasant farmer.

As she stared at the group, an uncontrollable burst of laughter welled up from her belly and came out in tiny, choked sounds. For once she might be more valuable to Ata than her brother had been. She might even please him with all the money she'd be sending home.

“Go ahead, Ata. Sign,” she hissed through her teeth. She twisted her tongue around in her mouth until she had a good supply of saliva and spit on the ground. That's what Memet would have done.

As she stood watching, the cadre did not single Ata out. Rather quickly, he said his goodbyes to all and walked down the lane, by himself.

Then Ata and Osman and another man were leaving. They followed the same path as the cadre but with no haste in their steps. Ata didn't even give a quick glance back in Mehrigul's direction. Where was he going?

She wanted to yell. Run after him. Make him tell her what was happening. But she didn't. She stayed by the cart, as tethered to it as their donkey to his hitching post. She would be there until Ata decided to return. That was why he had brought her. Wasn't that her duty?

There was little Mehrigul could do but trace the haze-covered sun as it inched across the November sky. And wonder why she should even try to sell cornstalks—or her basket. She covered the white bag that held the basket with her skirt. If the cadre or his wife came around, they didn't need to know about it.

Rather amusing, she thought, but this time no laughter came. Mrs. Chazen and Abdul would have trouble finding her out here in nowhere, but the cadre and his wife would have no problem at all. The local party leader would have little use for her now, though. Ata was the one he needed. Likely, the teacher had already told the cadre or his wife that Mehrigul had not returned to school.

 

By noontime, Mehrigul hadn't sold one bundle. More farmers were passing by now. She should try, she knew. Yet all she could manage was to stand behind the cornstalks, her basket hidden under her skirt, and search the lanes. Wondering why she still cared. But she did care, with every inch of her being. What if Mrs. Chazen and Abdul had returned to the market and were looking for her? Even if they couldn't find her right away, they might take an extra minute or two to look for her. She must keep watch.

In time, though, the thought of what Ata would do if she sold nothing took over. A friendly-looking man was coming down the lane. She went to the front of the cart. She remembered how Memet used to call to people when business was slow, telling them they needed radishes, onions, peppers. She'd do that.
Time to feed your donkey,
she'd call out.

No words came.

The words that raged inside Mehrigul were for the way her life had fallen apart, the helplessness she felt against Ata and the world outside that wanted to take her away from all she held dear, and her anger left her silent.

The man passed.

Mehrigul leaned against the cart. Perhaps next time.

A farmer leading a donkey came by. “I'll take two bundles,” he said. “Four yuan.”

“Ten,” she said.

“Four is generous enough,” he said, and began to walk away.

“No. Wait. Four is fine . . . if you'll take them from the pile yourself.”

The man pulled the yuan from his pocket. He raised his eyebrows as he laid the notes in Mehrigul's bandaged hands. He took the stalks and moved on.

 

By midafternoon the cart was half empty. Mehrigul had put her basket on the ground by the inside of the cart wheel, where she hoped no one would notice it. She stood at the front of the cart with a bundle of tall stalks at her side, swaying it back and forth to get the attention of passersby. As the sun moved lower in the sky, more and more stopped to buy. She was in the middle of a sale when she caught a flicker of red out of the corner of her eye—a young girl and her mother.

“Just take it. Leave the money,” she called as she raced down the lane. “Pati, I'm here!” she shouted, waving her arms as Pati and her mother came around the corner into full view. Shopping bags hung from their arms.