The Vine Basket (7 page)

She'd shared many things with Pati but never anything of such importance. She needed so much to have someone to talk to now. Someone to tell why she wanted to learn English.

“Come with me, Pati,” Mehrigul said. “I have something to show you in the bamboo patch.”

They walked along the road to the grove. Mehrigul carefully chose a new entryway into the thicket so that no clear path would lead to her special hiding place. Memet had taught her that.

She and Pati pushed through the culms to the spot where Mehrigul had stored her piles of cut grapevines and her baskets. Three new baskets lay on the ground, sheltered by cut branches. She removed the covering. There was one cone-shaped basket. Another was unlike any basket Mehrigul had ever seen. She had cut vine pieces as long as the distance from her thumb to her little finger when she stretched her hand wide. Instead of weaving, she had laid out seven pieces side by side, separating them so they formed a square. She had laced two vine pieces across the ends of this base, then two more across the ends of these, building row by row until the basket was shaped like a square box. That had looked too plain, so Mehrigul had added handles of twisted, curved vines, creating graceful arches on two sides.

The one she picked up was a ribbed basket shaped like half of a watermelon, with vine ribs hanging from a thick, oblong hoop, linked together with a simple in-and-out weave. She faced Pati with this basket cradled in her arms. She squinted to better see her friend's reaction in the muted light of the grove.

She saw the smile she'd hoped for.

“They're beautiful,” Pati said.

Then Mehrigul saw Pati suck in her breath, as if trying to keep from saying something.

“What, Pati? Tell me.”

“They're different from your chong ata's.” Pati reached for the square basket with the arched handles. Turned it around in her hands. “It's great to look at, but it won't hold much. And that one?” She pointed to the basket Mehrigul was holding. “It looks like you've woven cornhusks or something into it.”

“I have,” Mehrigul said, her voice quiet and composed. “You see, I'm not certain my baskets have any real use. But Pati . . .” She stopped. “I want you to keep a secret.”

“Sure,” Pati said.

“I mean a real secret, one you must tell no one.”

“I'm your friend. Of course I will.”

“You must keep your word.”

“Mehrigul, I promise.”

“A lady from America saw the old basket I'd hung on the donkey cart and bought it. She asked me to make others. She'll come back to the market a week from Wednesday . . . to buy more. That's why I want to learn English.”

Pati swung her shoulders left to right, back and forth, in what Mehrigul knew to be her greatest show of delight.

“That's exciting,” Pati said. Then again there was a question in her eyes. “Has your grandfather seen your baskets?”

“Not yet. I'm waiting until Ata goes on pilgrimage, then I'll bring them for him to see. He must be the first one in the family to see them,” Mehrigul said. “It will be important that he likes them.”

Pati shrugged. “He might think using cornhusks is too common for an American lady.”

“But look.” Mehrigul held out her basket. “Don't you think they add texture and color?” A grin suddenly crossed her face. “If you just happen to see a certain young man tomorrow, and he just happens to have leftover scraps of red or blue felt, I'd be very glad to weave them into my baskets. You're right, a lady from America might like that better.”

“I'll try to make it happen,” Pati said.

Mehrigul placed her baskets on the ground and covered them again with the fallen bamboo culms.

“I wish I knew the English word for ‘basket,'” she said.

Pati folded her hands across her waist. This was another sign Mehrigul knew—her friend had something she was reluctant to say.

“Oh, all right,” Pati said finally, digging into her bag and pulling out a small book. “You need this more than I do. It gives the English word for the same word in Mandarin. The teacher let me have it. I was going to be the smart one and teach you, but you can borrow it.” She handed the battered book to Mehrigul. “You need more words than I can teach you right away.”

Mehrigul made a low bow in acceptance, then quickly opened the book.

“
Lanzi
is the Mandarin word.” Mehrigul searched through the
l'
s. “Here it is,” she said. “The word is
basket.
Basket,
” she repeated.
“Basket.”

Pati stood tall. “So you say to the American lady,
Do you like basket?
”

Swaying and singing,
“Do you like basket? Do you like basket?”,
they made their way back through the bamboo onto the road. A lightness swept through Mehrigul, lifting some of her doubts, her fears that the meeting with Mrs. Chazen had been so outside her real world that it could only have been imagined.

But Ata coming toward them, seeing them emerge from the bamboo, was more real than she wished. “What were you doing in there?” he asked, angling his head and frowning.

Mehrigul had no answer. She froze the carefree look of a moment ago on her face to hide the guilt she felt about her baskets.

The growing silence spoke of secrets.

Pati took a step toward Ata. “We heard a strange birdcall,” she said in a sweet, innocent voice. “We rushed through the bamboo, hoping to get a glimpse.” She laughed. “I guess we were just having fun, for we surely would have scared it away.”

Ata tightened his lips. “Uhmm,” he mumbled, not bothering to acknowledge Pati. His attention was drawn to the book Mehrigul held in her hand. “What's that?” he said.

“A school book Pati brought me, so I can study.” Mehrigul kept her voice strong and even, but she couldn't control the trembling in her hands. She clutched her arms and the book to her, hoping Ata wouldn't notice. “The bicycle is by the grapevines. I'll bring it home right away.”

“No. You'll bring it to me now, and you will walk home.” Ata's voice was quiet. He stood with his hands on his waist, just looking at her. He raised his eyebrows, but not in anger—that would be easy to recognize. If he thought they'd lied to him, why wasn't he shouting?

Mehrigul felt Pati's arm around her, hurrying her away toward their parked bicycles.

M
EHRIGUL TOOK ONE LAST
look at the road before she passed the corner of the house that would obscure her view. She hadn't planned to show Chong Ata her baskets today, but for the first time in long memory she and her grandfather were alone. Ana's headaches had gotten so bad that she couldn't leave her bed. Ata was driving her to the doctor in the cotton township. Ana had known the village healer since childhood. He was the only one she'd allow to take her pulse and check for symptoms, to prepare herbs for her to brew into a tea. Ata insisted Ana see him before he left on pilgrimage.

Mehrigul took the risk that they might change their minds and return early. She wanted so badly to know if Chong Ata thought her baskets worthy of showing to the American lady.

“I've brought two of my baskets for you to see, Chong Ata,” Mehrigul said. She squatted next to him in the yard where he was at work, surrounded by his willow branches. “I need to know if you like them.”

As Chong Ata reached forward to place his work on the ground, the front panel of his coat flapped open, revealing the sheepskin lining with its long, shaggy strands of wool. Was he already so cold he had to wear it? He would sleep inside when the winter winds came, join the family on the wooden sleeping platforms they shared in the room that was for cooking and eating, for living and sleeping. Still, they never had enough blankets to guard them from the cold that penetrated the cracks in their walls of poplar sticks and mud. They had no money to buy a proper stove with pipes leading under the sleeping platforms to heat them. Heat from pipes was a marvel she knew from visiting Pati. Pati's beloved grandmother, her whole family had this comfort.

Shouldn't she be out collecting their winter store of fallen branches and twigs for the brazier rather than making baskets? Who would do that if she were sent away? The baskets in her arms grew heavy with her guilt. Her use of time to make them was a luxury. How many more days of absence from school would the cadre and his wife allow before Mehrigul was picked to fill their quota of factory workers?

They hadn't come after her yet. And if she made even more baskets—and was paid a hundred yuan each!—maybe her family could even buy some coal. That would keep Chong Ata warmer than any twigs.

Chong Ata cleared his throat, his hands idle, waiting.

“I'm sorry,” Mehrigul said. “Maybe I'm afraid to show you my baskets, for fear you won't like them.”

Chong Ata said nothing. He closed his eyes and held out his hands. Mehrigul handed him her square basket. She watched as he traced the arches of the handles with his fingers. He held the basket between his hands, as if measuring the length of each side. He felt the bottom, tested the bindings. Then opened his cloudy eyes, squinting to bring an image into place.

A shiver ran through Mehrigul's body. His expression told nothing. There was no scowl, no smile. He looked at the basket for the longest time.

“Mehrigul.” He finally spoke, calling her not Granddaughter, as he always did, but by her name. Was this a sign of Chong Ata's new respect for her?

“I'm proud that you have created a different kind of basket,” he said. “One I have never seen before. I believe the lady at the market will like it. It's sturdy and well made.” He handed the basket back to Mehrigul, all the time nodding approval.

Still she shivered, but this time from relief. “Thank you, Chong Ata,” she said. “I have another for you to see.”

As she reached for the ribbed basket, her hands froze. Not that she'd heard anything. It was a feeling—not a sound. “I'll be right back.” She sprang up, darted to the corner of the house. Her eyes searched the roadway. No donkey carts were in sight. She'd sensed her own fear.

When her heart stopped pounding, she went back to Chong Ata's side. “Please don't tell Ata you've seen my baskets,” she said. “He thought the basket I sold was worthless and doesn't want me to make more. He'd say they're worth nothing more than to feed to a goat.”

Chong Ata's body curved into a ball of sadness.

“It may be hard for your father to see beauty in anything these days,” he said. “You must try to forgive him. We are all grieving from the shadow that has been cast over our lives.” He rocked his body back and forth, letting his head drop onto his chest.

Mehrigul tightened her hold on the ribbed basket. Forgiveness of Ata was not something that came easily to her heart. If Chong Ata knew, if he'd caught Ata gambling, would he say to forgive him? Weren't they all grieving from more shadows than she could think of?

Air seemed to flow into Chong Ata's body again. He looked up, gave a long sigh.

“I believe you have another basket to show me,” he said.

Mehrigul eased her grasp on the basket and placed it in his outstretched hands. She would not let this rare—maybe her last—private moment with Chong Ata be spoiled with thoughts of Ata.

She watched as he again closed his eyes, explored her work with his hands. Chong Ata's white mustache curved around a broad smile as he fingered the cornhusks interwoven with the vines.

“For many years now,” he said, “I have made only baskets for daily use.” His eyes open again, he held the basket close to his face. “You have made something that is uncommon.”

“Do you think the American lady will like it?” Mehrigul moved closer to Chong Ata, examining the basket herself, trying to see it as if for the first time.

“I believe she saw a particular quality in the basket she bought. Something she liked. And wished to have more.” Chong Ata lowered the basket, cradling it in his lap. “Baskets don't have to all be alike. Cotton can be woven into plain cloth. If you change the pattern of the warp and the weft you get a different weave. If the threads are dyed you get different colors.”

All of a sudden Chong Ata leaned his head back, shaking it, almost losing his big, black wooly hat. “Why, we cover the mud walls of our homes with bright, colorful cloth full of flowers and patterns,” he said. “That tells something about the nature of our Uyghur hearts.”

Chong Ata picked up Mehrigul's ribbed basket that still lay in his lap and held it out to her. “Our people should never lose the joy of making beautiful things with their hands—especially when so much else is being taken away from us.” He paused. Looked away, into the distance. “I know no reason at all why a basket has to be plain.”

“Thank you, Chong Ata,” Mehrigul said.

He gathered the willow spokes that lay at his feet and began again to weave. “Your father wants some of my baskets to take on pilgrimage. I must not be idle.”

“Nor must I.” Mehrigul gathered her baskets. “I'll store mine. I have a special place. I'll be right back.”

She slid cautiously around the corner of the house. The way was clear. She ran down the road toward the stand of bamboo, stirring up dust and dirt from the roadway and not caring.

 

If only Chong Ata is right,
she thought.
That someone might like a basket just because it's different. The American lady wouldn't be coming back if she didn't want more.

If she comes back.

 

Minutes later, Mehrigul was in Chong Ata's workroom, removing the branches she needed from the bag of cut willow he kept there. The moistened branches had already turned from yellow to deep tan, a color that was Mehrigul's favorite. She brought the branches close to her nose and drew in the sweet scent. It was Chong Ata's smell—the smell of his newly made baskets—that always brought contentment.