The Vine Basket (19 page)

Mehrigul slid from the cart. Paced back and forth in the lane, trying not to think of what would happen next.

The visit from Mrs. Chazen was so unreal. Her hands so empty now.

Then Ata was coming toward her, leading the donkey. He was carrying two packages and thrust one at her. “Open it,” he said, his head turned away. He laid the other packet on the cart and went about putting the shafts through the loops on the donkey's belly band and into the collar.

She could only keep staring through the clear plastic bag at something that was the shade of the early-evening sky. Something patterned with traces of turquoise and black. Mehrigul lifted it from the package. Rubbed a corner against her face and felt the softest silk she had ever known. It was a scarf she could never wear. It was much too lovely.

A few steps closer to Ata, she found her voice. “Thank you,” she said. “It's beautiful.”

He kept on working, his back to her.

Mehrigul walked to the rear of the cart, prepared to hop on when Ata was ready to go. The smell from the other package reached her nostrils. It was the sharp, biting odor of raw mutton—a much bigger package than she and Memet had ever bought. Her stomach grumbled at the thought of the rich meat that would be tonight's supper. At least tonight her family would feast on the money she'd made.

Mehrigul swung herself onto the cart as it pulled away. Maybe in the peacefulness of their country lane she would come to know the meaning of what Ata had just done. The scarf was the only gift he had ever given her, and he'd bought it with her money! Was that the thanks she'd get for earning two thousand yuan?

Maybe Ata had figured out he'd have even more money if he sent her away, and the scarf was meant to make up for it.    Mehrigul's body rocked to the steady rhythm of the turning wheels as she stared back at the vanishing marketplace. Her eyelids, heavy with weariness and her whirling thoughts, began to close. Again she saw Mrs. Chazen and Abdul, Mrs. Chazen with a white bag dangling from her arm. They were walking down the path. Away from her. Getting smaller and smaller and smaller, until they were tiny specks. Mehrigul strained to keep the picture in her mind until she sank onto the wooden planks in a fitful sleep.

L
ALI'S CRIES WOKE
M
EHRIGUL
. Lali was jumping up and down in the yard, waving, running circles around Ana as they watched Ata and Mehrigul make their way down the poplar-lined road toward home. For a moment, the joy of selling her basket—of hearing such wonderful words of praise—overcame Mehrigul. She yearned to leap from the cart and rush to greet them, but she held back. Ata must be the one to tell the story of the two thousand yuan, if he chose to. And of his meeting with the cadre.

Mehrigul shivered. An evening chill had crept in as the sun dipped behind the Kunlun, but she wasn't certain if she trembled from the cold.

Lali broke loose from Ana's hold and ran down the road. Mehrigul slid off the cart. Held the soft goodness of Lali tight to her, until Lali wiggled free and pulled her down so she could whisper.

“Na wei nushi xihuan ni de Lanzi ma?”
Lali said. “Did the lady like your basket?”

Mehrigul flinched at the sounds of the Mandarin. “Let's only speak our beautiful Uyghur tonight. Our secret language can wait for another day,” she said. “You see, this is a very special occasion. The lady did like my basket.” She gave Lali another hug.

“Lali, there's a package for Ana on the cart. You run along. Take it to her right away. Then you must help her. Do whatever she tells you.” Mehrigul rubbed her belly and licked her lips, and Lali did the same. “Go,” Mehrigul said, pushing Lali on her way.

Surely Ana would guess that the day had been a success. She would notice that the white cotton bag she'd made for Mehrigul no longer swung from her arm.

It was hard to stay at Ata's side. There was nothing to be done with the cart that he couldn't do by himself, but Mehrigul knew she couldn't run ahead. Whatever version of the story was told, it had to be Ata's.

They both walked beside the cart, heading around the back of the house toward the shed. In spite of the pain in her hands, Mehrigul raked dirty straw from the shed and carried in fresh. As Ata was releasing the donkey from the harness, she took the bucket to get water from the spigot.

“Mehrigul?” a quiet voice called as she headed back to the shed.

“Chong Ata?” He was by the door of his workroom, squatting in the darkness. “Oh, Chong Ata.” She dropped the pail and ran to him. Squatted beside him. “The American lady loved our basket. She thought it very valuable. Because of the bamboo.”

“No, Granddaughter, because of what you did with it. Anyone can prepare bamboo.”

Mehrigul put her hands over Chong Ata's as they rested on his knees. “You must teach me how. I want to learn everything your father taught you. Weaving is not enough to know. And we will somehow gather tamarisk from the desert. Only you, Chong Ata, can teach me how to weave the spirit of our people into a basket.”

“That cannot be taught, Mehrigul, but it is something you already know. I saw it in your basket. Still, there will be much for you to learn. Come spring . . .” He paused. His head fell to his chest as he looked away. “There will be much we can do,” he said in a voice Mehrigul could hardly hear.

She heard and could only think of the love and wisdom she must leave behind if forced to go. Or . . . that Chong Ata might leave her even if she wasn't sent away. “I hope, Chong Ata, that we—that you—will have a good, warm winter, so we can get to our work when spring arrives.” Mehrigul urged him to his feet. “Come,” she said, “you go inside. I'll take the pail to Ata.”

Mehrigul was thankful for the darkness that swallowed the lingering traces of daylight. It hid the moisture that clouded her eyes.

Ata did not ask what had taken her so long. He took the pail and put it in front of the donkey, now roped inside the shed. He had gathered the twigs they needed for the night. They each picked up a bundle and headed for the house.

By the time they had laid the twigs at the door, Ana was beside them. She had a basin in one hand. In the other she held a copper pitcher. She gestured to Ata to hold his hands over the basin.

For a moment, Ata stood stiffly beside her. Slowly, as if lifting heavy weights, he raised his hands. Mehrigul wondered why he was resisting this return to their long-abandoned ritual. A practice that seemed to have no place in these times—primitive, Chinese officials called it. They feared the customs the Uyghurs clung to. Was Ata afraid they might get caught and punished?

He held his hands steady while Ana poured water over them. He rubbed his hands together. Twice more the ritual was repeated. As was the custom, Ata did not shake his hands dry; that would have been impolite and unlucky. He waited until Lali, who stood beside Ana, offered him a towel. He used it and returned it to her.

Ata's black eyebrows were still pinched together, suggesting some kind of lingering distrust or anger, as he went inside the house. With the yuan in his pocket, couldn't he allow himself a few moments of contentment with his family?

Mehrigul's legs almost collapsed under her as her thoughts overwhelmed her. He still
had
the yuan, didn't he? He'd left her, gone off into the market. What if he'd owed money . . . maybe to people like Osman? And had already paid it off?

Mehrigul barely felt Lali take her arm and lead her to the ritual bowl. She knew she must not let her fears disturb the sanctity of the honor Ana was bestowing upon her. She held up her hands. Three times Ana sprinkled water over the bandages. Three times Mehrigul rubbed her hands and tried to let the power of the ritual washing calm her. Lali lifted the towel and gently patted the wet cotton, then walked with Mehrigul to the eating cloth and helped her to sit at Chong Ata's side.

“Lali, come, bring tea to your ata and Mehrigul. They've had a busy day at market.” Ana was already at the kitchen ledge, pouring tea into bowls.

The tea was set in front of them in a most solemn way. Lali had never tried so hard to please. Mehrigul forced her lips into a straight line to keep from smiling. For a moment she let the warmth and tenderness she felt for Lali and Chong Ata, and even for Ana, overcome her fears. Hard times had weighed down the family for years. Their survival had only lately become Mehrigul's burden, too. Perhaps she understood more now.

As she reached to cup her hands around the tea bowl, to feel its warmth, Mehrigul saw that everyone was looking at her. She lowered her head. “Ata?” she said.

“Perhaps Mehrigul would like me to tell her news,” he said.

Mehrigul pulled her hands back. Folded them in her lap. She hated the mocking way he'd said the words. She didn't know what to expect, but Ata knew he'd have to say something, at least about the money. Pati and her mother knew.

She heard Ana catch her breath. When she looked up, Ata was silently laying out money on the eating cloth. One-hundred-yuan notes. There were twenty of them. Ata had not spent her money for the mutton, or for her scarf.

“The American lady paid a high price for Mehrigul's basket,” Ata said. “There is an arrangement for her to buy more, if Mehrigul is not—”

“My sister's famous,” Lali said, her eyes growing wider and wider.

“I was very lucky, Lali, that someone saw my basket and really wanted it.” Mehrigul beckoned to her sister. “Come, sit next to me. I haven't changed one bit.”

With Lali nestled close, Mehrigul looked again at Ata. What was he about to say when Lali interrupted? He sat hunched over, his hands in front of him. Again and again he pressed his thumb into his palm.

“The man with the American lady was Uyghur,” Ata said, fixing his eyes on the yuan. “His name is Abdul Khalil. He grew up in a nearby township and now lives in Hotan, where he works as a guide.” He paused. “I trust him.

“He . . . ah . . .” Ata dropped his head, his chin tight to his chest, his hands pressing nervously up and down his thighs. “He thought Mehrigul might go back to school—if she'd be foolish enough to want to waste her time doing that.”

No! I said it, Ata. I want to go back to school. Is it foolish to want to give myself some chance of making a life here, with my own people?
Is it foolish to not want to be sent away to work in a factory?
The words screamed in Mehrigul's head, but only a gasp escaped from her mouth.

If Ata heard, he did not show it.

Silence hung over the room, as if no one dared breathe. Lali's eyes were shifting uneasily from Mehrigul to her ata, and Ana's hand crept to Lali's arm to still her.

Slowly at first, then more rapidly, Ata's body pitched back and forth, his mouth tightly drawn, holding back words Mehrigul could not guess at.

With a suddenness that caught her off-guard, Ata turned to her, his eyes fierce, piercing. “Could you do that? Go to school and have time to make more baskets?”

“Yes . . . Ata . . . I think I can.” Mehrigul's voice trembled. Why was he so angry when he asked that question? She forced herself to keep a steady gaze.

And then she understood. Ata wasn't angry. He was afraid. Frightened that Mehrigul might fail. If she did, everything would be lost, for all of them. Ata had given up all hope when Memet left. He was afraid to hope again, to believe his family had been given another chance.

Mehrigul now had some trust that her ata might fight for her to stay home with her family. And, with Abdul's support, that might be allowed to happen.

She softened her face. Placed her hands on her heart. “Yes, Ata,” Mehrigul said. “With everyone's help, I will be able to make baskets that someone wants to buy.” She wanted to, with all her being. She was proud to be the one chosen to carry on the family's tradition. Chong Ata's tradition. Silently, she asked again that the wish on her token be granted. To let her hands make beautiful work, and to give her the strength to carry on.

She would find a new secret place and tie another piece of cloth to a stem that reached for the sky. This time, she would ask for God's help in letting her baskets tell the story of her people's desire to be free. Each would carry that hidden message in the flow of the vines and branches. Some would be bright and colorful with scraps of Pati's felt, to show the true nature of their Uyghur hearts. They would all have a meaning that the Han would never understand or try to destroy with a gun.

Maybe those who liked and bought her baskets would somehow know.

Everyone was watching her again. Mehrigul was not used to being the center of attention. Ill at ease, she pressed her arms against her sides. She felt her package, the gift from Ata she'd kept in her pocket. She took it out and held it up for everyone to see.

“Ata gave this to me,” she said.

“Oh, it's pretty,” Lali said, pulling at an end, feeling it with her fingers. “And so soft.”

Ana rose and went to Mehrigul. She removed the old scarf and reached for the new one, tying it loosely in back so the fullness of Mehrigul's jet-black hair framed her face. “It is lovely,” Ana said.

Again there was an awkward silence in a family that had grown unused to sharing more than the basic needs of survival.

Until Ata spoke, asking Lali to bring him the
rawap.

For a moment he just held the instrument across his chest, cradling it in his arms. Slowly, his right hand moved across the small, bowl-shaped body, plucking strings that had fallen out of tune from many weeks of neglect. Ata slid his other hand over the long neck to the tuning pegs, leaning his ear close to the strings as he adjusted the pitches. Soft, mournful chords began to fill the room.

Mehrigul closed her eyes and tried to bring back a memory from long ago, when her uncle and aunt, their family, relatives, and neighbors sat outside their house at harvest time, playing instruments, dancing, singing—before they had been driven away by hard times and distant promises of a better life. There had been sad songs, but there had been lively ones, too.