The Vine Basket (18 page)

“Assalam alaykum,”
Abdul said, his hand rising to his chest, palm open, bowing.

Ata lowered one arm and kept the other tight to his chest, his fist clenched.
“Wa alaykum assalam,”
he replied, his head barely inclined. Mehrigul cringed at his rudeness.

“I am here with Mrs. Chazen, from the United States,” Abdul said. “She admires your daughter's work, especially the bamboo basket she brought today. She has offered a very generous amount for its purchase.”

A look of confusion passed briefly over Ata's face. He had been expecting a grapevine basket, Mehrigul knew. Then he again steeled his expression.

There was an awkward silence as Abdul waited for Ata's response.

Finally, Ata shrugged. “I see no problem,” he said. “I'm certain we can settle on a price.”

Mehrigul dropped her head, embarrassed at the swagger that had crept into Ata's voice.

To her relief, Abdul raised his hand, stopping Ata from saying more. “Mrs. Chazen has already named an amount to Mehrigul. I believe you will be quite satisfied. She would like to offer—”

“I know what the American lady paid for the grapevine basket,” Ata said, the fingers of one hand brushing at his beard, while he cocked his other hand at his waist. “Think what one made from bamboo might cost!”

Mehrigul could bear no more. “No, Ata!” She ran to his side. “Don't!” Her whole body contorted in shame for him.

Ata's elbow swung out to shove Mehrigul aside. Abdul stepped closer and Ata froze.

“Please let me speak,” Abdul said, his voice firm. “Mrs. Chazen has offered Mehrigul two thousand yuan for her basket.”

Ata lurched back. “For her basket?” His head was shaking in that awful way that was half laughter and half disbelief.

Then, slowly, Ata turned to glare at Mrs. Chazen, and Mehrigul remembered his words:
What else does she want from you?
Why couldn't Ata trust Abdul and Mrs. Chazen? Why was he acting like this?

“It is a generous sum,” Abdul said, “and there could be more. Mrs. Chazen is interested in making a long-term arrangement with Mehrigul to supply baskets for her shop.”

“No one pays that much for baskets,” Ata said.

“Has your father not seen your work, Mehrigul?”

A chill crept over her body as she heard Abdul's question. She looked at the bag clutched to her side, the bag that covered her betrayal of her father—a basket she had been forbidden to make. She did not want him to see it.

She shook her head slightly without looking up.

“Perhaps you should show him, so he'll understand its worth.”

As she stooped and uncovered her basket, Abdul and Mrs. Chazen were speaking in English. Quietly at first, then Mrs. Chazen's words were louder, sharper. Fear gripped Mehrigul—fear that now Mrs. Chazen had seen the basket again, she no longer wanted it.

Mehrigul forced herself to raise her eyes. Mrs. Chazen was staring at Ata, not her. At Ata, who thrust out his arm, pointing at the basket.

“What is that thing?” he said. He looked flustered as he moved toward Mehrigul. “It's not even a basket. It couldn't be worth that much.”

Mehrigul rose and stood in front of her work. Abdul went to her side.

“Please don't misunderstand,” he said. “Mrs. Chazen is honorable. I have helped her acquire crafts from our townships for many years. Your daughter's work is more than just a basket; it is an unusual work of art. Mrs. Chazen believes it will sell very successfully in her shop in America.”

Ata stood ill at ease, his eyes darting back and forth between Abdul and Mrs. Chazen.

“Mrs. Chazen has helped many of our Uyghur people,” Abdul said. “She buys their handmade felt rugs, their wooden bowls, their handwoven ikat silks. She knows well the value of Mehrigul's basket.”

Mehrigul listened to Abdul's words in wonder, awed that she might be thought of in the same way as these respected craftsmen. For the first time in uncountable days, Mehrigul allowed herself gladness, a feeling that began to ease the tight bands behind her eyes. Could she believe again that there was good in the world—someone who didn't want to harm them but to help? Could Ata believe that?

“These are difficult times.” Abdul spoke solemnly to Ata. “I have two daughters. I worry about their future. It's hard to know what tomorrow will bring for them. Or for us.” He paused. “You are very fortunate. Mehrigul has a special talent. She can have a good future. Mrs. Chazen and I, too, want to help her. To help you.” Abdul studied Ata's face for a moment. “We must recognize goodwill when it's offered.”

Ata turned his head fiercely—away from Abdul. Then, slowly, his shoulders slumped and his clasped hands hung in front of him. Now Mehrigul knew that the cadre had talked to him. Ata was thinking of what the future would bring for his daughter.

“I know, Ata,” Mehrigul said. “The cadre's wife has talked to me. I know my name is on the list.”

She turned to Mrs. Chazen. “Please,” she said. “Please tell Mrs. Chazen how much I want to make more baskets for her. How grateful I am that she wants them. Only . . . I can't . . . I won't be able to.” Tears flooded Mehrigul's eyes, but she couldn't tell if they fell to her cheeks. There was no feeling left in her body. She wondered how she was still standing, yet she went on, directing her words to Abdul now. “Because I no longer go to school, I have been selected to be sent to the south of China to work in a factory. It won't be possible for me to make more baskets.”

There was silence for a moment as Mrs. Chazen turned to Abdul, wondering what had been said. Abdul held his finger to his lips.

The longer Abdul stood silent, the more uneasy Ata became. “I couldn't let Mehrigul go to school,” he said finally, his voice rising. “My son left us. Her mother's . . . sick.” His face twisted and he threw his arms wide. “She had to work on the farm. She was all the help I had. She couldn't go to school and do that too.”

“I'm sorry to hear your son left,” Abdul said after a pause. “That must be very hard for you. You're fortunate, though, to have a gifted daughter who will be able to help you in other ways.” Again he paused. “Is it certain that Mehrigul must go?”

“I haven't signed the papers. I am to be at the local party leader's office next week.”

“Ata,” Mehrigul whispered. Words she hadn't dared even to think before were forming in her head. She was going to say them to Ata, no matter what might happen.

“If you let me go back to school, maybe you won't have to sign.” Her lips trembled, but she let the words tumble out before they got smothered inside. “You see . . . Ata . . . I would like to go back to school . . . and have time to make baskets.” Mehrigul lifted her head and looked directly at him. Looked at him and would not turn away. “Please. That's what I would like to do. Maybe some of the money from the basket could be used to hire help for you this winter.”

Had Ata heard her? His face showed no response, but his eyes were black and bitter and cold. She knew she had been disrespectful to say so much. Her better sense told her to bow her head and fold her hands, but her arms would not move, her head would not bend.

Mehrigul gasped with relief when Ata finally turned away to look at Abdul, who was speaking quietly to Mrs. Chazen. Then, too quickly, everyone was looking at her again, and she knew she must stand as sturdy as the desert tamarisk, as steadfast as Chong Ata. She was surprised at the courage that brought her. “I told the cadre's wife I expected to go back to school at the end of harvest,” Mehrigul said to Ata. “We've gathered our summer crops. The winter wheat is planted. Maybe . . . if I go back now . . .”

Ata flailed his arms. “It's too late. I've said I'd sign. The cadre won't like it if I change my mind. They have their quota to fill.” He began to pace back and forth, stamping his feet. “I may have to pay him or give up more of our land if you don't go. They look for any excuse.”

“I know what you say is true,” Abdul said, his voice gentle and calming. He walked quietly at Ata's side until Ata's steps slowed and finally stopped. “How old is your daughter?”

“I'm four—” Mehrigul felt a tap on her wrist. With her arm around Mehrigul, Mrs. Chazen led her aside.

“Fourteen,” Ata said, with a cold glance at Mehrigul.

Mehrigul regretted that she'd tried to answer. She'd already said more than she should have. Perhaps Mrs. Chazen understood this and was telling her to let the men talk. Strangely, Mehrigul felt comforted and strong as she stood beside Mrs. Chazen.

Again Abdul spoke in his gentle, quiet voice. “If you haven't signed, and Mehrigul goes to school immediately, the cadre might reverse his demand or agree to a delay until she is of age, at sixteen.”

“He'll want something from me to make that happen. I know.” Ata spit the words out. “We're treated like scum in our own country.”

Abdul put his hand on Ata's arm. “I know your cadre,” he said. “We grew up together in a township not far from here. He has become a bitter man, working against the will of his own people. I will go with you. We'll meet with him together. If you agree to follow the rules—if Mehrigul stays in school—he should be obliged to change his order.” Abdul hesitated. “You could offer him a small gift.”

Abdul gave a quick, reassuring look at Mehrigul before turning again to Ata. “I will offer my guarantee to the cadre that this agreement will be kept.”

Ata's eyes flashed wariness, but the heat of his anger seemed to have passed. “Perhaps something can be worked out,” he said to Abdul, his glance never once going to Mehrigul. “The meeting is next Monday at two o'clock.”

“I'll help in any way I can,” Abdul said, and Ata nodded.

Abdul turned to Mrs. Chazen, explaining in English what had taken place.

Then Mrs. Chazen was counting out yuan notes into Abdul's hands. Mehrigul's own hands flew to her mouth to stifle her protest as Abdul handed the notes to Ata. Ata's brows arched in disbelief as he reached to accept them. The black hardness of his eyes had not softened. Mehrigul saw no good reason to believe that Ata might change—that he would not think it all right to spend the money on gambling and wine.

“If everything works out,” Abdul was saying, “Mrs. Chazen wants very much for Mehrigul to make more baskets. If you and Mehrigul agree, I'll come to your farm once a month and pay a hundred yuan for each vine basket Mehrigul makes. Of course, there will be more for baskets that are as unique and wonderful as the one she brought to us today.”

Mehrigul looked at her hands. Hands that a few days ago had lost their talent for making even a simple vine basket. Only the magic of Chong Ata's bamboo had rescued her.

Mehrigul stole a shy glance at Mrs. Chazen. Mrs. Chazen was looking at her with the same reassuring smile she remembered from before. She lowered her head, not knowing how to respond. But she knew with all her heart that she could make more baskets. She must. And she would.

As Abdul and Ata kept talking, Mehrigul again felt a touch on her arm. Mrs. Chazen was beside her with the camera, gesturing for Mehrigul to hold the basket. She lifted it and tried to force her lips into a pleasant expression, but her mind stirred with too many unknowns for her to give in to the happiness she wanted to feel. She felt self-conscious and scared as the camera kept flashing, over and over again.

Then Abdul had the camera and was taking pictures of Mehrigul and Mrs. Chazen together.

And then Abdul and Mrs. Chazen walked away, down the path, the white bag dangling from the American lady's arm.

M
EHRIGUL STOOD ALONE WITH
Ata, watching Mrs. Chazen and Abdul until they disappeared around the corner at the end of the nearly empty pathway.

Was it possible that she might not have to leave? How hard would Ata plead with the cadre to take her name off the list? He could keep the two thousand yuan and still agree to have her sent away. If he could please the local leader and get the money she'd earn at a factory, he might think that a better arrangement.

“There's something you must know, Ata,” Mehrigul said. She kept her eyes on the dusty ground. She didn't want to look at him, to see the storm that would flash across his face. “I wasn't alone when I met the American lady. Pati and her mother were there . . . and others.”

The silence that was his answer was worse.

“They saw my basket . . . and know about the yuan,” she blurted out. Money was earned in the marketplace by men, not their wives or daughters, even though they helped to sell. Word of Mehrigul's exchange would spread to Ata's friends, and there was nothing she could do about it. She hadn't planned it that way.

Again, Ata made no reply.

A new feeling filled Mehrigul. A stubbornness she couldn't control. She would not look at him—if that was what he was waiting for. “I never got to buy the mutton,” she said. “I'll go now. I have money from the cornstalks.” Mehrigul turned to leave.

“No,” Ata said, stopping her. “I'll go.” He set off, his stride long, steady with purpose.

Mehrigul's heart sank as she watched him disappear. She might better have made him say something, endured his abuse, instead of letting him walk away. Surely, he'd find some way to get a drink, and maybe, if he was lucky, men were still huddled around the gambling table. He'd begin the celebration of her good fortune with wine and gambling.

She wished she'd never made the basket!

Her eyes blurred with tears, she stumbled toward the cart and sat crouched against the triangular crossbar at its head, the triangle of wood where she and Memet had tied the vine-woven cornucopia that started it all.

Here she sat, the “gifted daughter,” Abdul had called her. Which had made her believe there might be some hope for her and her family. Only if the two thousand yuan Ata had in his pocket was carefully spent. “Go back to school . . . make more baskets.” Another foolish dream.