The Vine Basket

by Josanne La Valley

  “Ata?” Mehrigul said. A moan was his answer. Likely he’d fallen asleep. The donkey knew the way home and didn’t need anyone to guide him.

  “Ata.”

  “What . . . what is it?” he finally said.

  “Ana will be upset we didn’t sell the peaches. We need the money.” There was no reply. “The corn is still lying in the field. We should take it to the mill.”

  Ata waved his arm as if brushing away a pesky fly. “Mutalip will grind it,” he mumbled. “I’ll pay . . . later.”

  Mehrigul recoiled at Ata’s words. Mutalip was her best friend’s father. Already generous to her family. How could Ata ask for more?

  “You owe him money from before.” Mehrigul spoke the words slowly and fiercely, as her hand dug into her pocket, pushing her note in deeper, farther away from her father.

  Slowly Ata turned toward her, his head bobbing until his eyes focused. “If you’d sold the peaches, we’d have money to shell and grind the corn.” The awful curl of his lips made Mehrigul shudder. Ata was sober enough to figure out how to blame her and make it seem he’d done nothing wrong at all.

  But his words were true. Ata’s offense didn’t excuse her. Mehrigul felt ashamed that she, too, had let the family down.

  “It’s not something I do well—as you do, Ata.” Mehrigul bowed her head as a swirl of memories swept over her. “Memet was good at selling,” she said. “The girls brought their mothers and neighbors to buy from him.” She stopped. Calling back those days was not helpful.

  “That’s why we always came home with an empty cart last summer,” she added, her voice again under control.

  Ata’s head slumped to the side, his eyes taking on a blank stare. His mouth opened but he didn’t speak.

  “We all miss him. He’ll be back soon, I’m sure,” Mehrigul said, lying, once more guarding Memet’s secret from Ata. Ata, who each day stood staring down the lane, hoping, expecting to see his son riding home on the back of someone’s motorcycle.

  They rode in silence for a few more minutes. Then Ata righted himself. Taking a big gulp of air, he slid from the cart and walked alongside, his stride unsure at first, then more and more firm.

  “You will cut the peaches when we get home,” he said. “Prepare them for drying. There should be room on the roof.” For a brief moment he stopped walking. Then started again, pounding his feet into the dusty road. “I’ll speak with your ana. It’s best she doesn’t see you preparing them. I’ll drop my knife and the bags in the shed.”

  Again, Mehrigul let her fingers caress the crisp note. It would pay the fees and buy the clothes she and her little sister needed for school for the whole year and more. That was a nice dream, but it wouldn’t keep them from going hungry during the winter months as their fields lay barren. She knew the money must go to Mutalip so they would have cornmeal for their naan and porridge. Was Ata thinking about the food they would need when he threw their money away on wine and gambling?

  “Stop the cart, Ata.” Mehrigul jumped down and held out the one-hundred-yuan note for him to see.

  “Where’d you get that?” he said, his eyes narrowing. “What have you been hiding from me?” He lurched toward her.

  “The . . . vine . . . basket,” she stammered, inching backwards. “I . . . sold it.”

  Ata’s eyes darted to the crossbar, then back to Mehrigul. “Yes?” he said, pointing his finger at the hundred yuan. “So?”

  “A lady from America liked it . . . and bought it. I told her it would cost one yuan. She gave me one hundred.”

  “For that basket?” Ata said. His hands went to his hips. He was shaking his head. Almost laughing.

  Then his hand cupped his beard. He stepped closer. “What else does she want from you?”

  “I . . . I don’t know. She was pleased with my basket. She wants me to make more.” Mehrigul clasped her hands to stop the shaking. She hadn’t thought there could be anything wrong with selling the basket. “She’ll return to the market in three weeks to buy others that I make.”

  Ata’s brows drew together, his eyes clear now and black as coal.

  “A Uyghur man was with her,” Mehrigul said, trying to stand straighter and taller than she was feeling. “He seemed nice, too . . . and I thought if I could make more baskets and sell them . . . it would help.”

  Mehrigul could not tell what Ata was thinking as he scowled at her.

  “I promise I won’t take time away from chores,” she said. “I know how much must be done. I’ll do everything you tell me.”

  Ata’s face darkened. She wanted to run from him. She knew he was a good father, a good man. But lately—since Memet left—with his drinking, his thinking was not right.

  The money was what he looked at now, not her.

  “Take it,” Mehrigul said, holding the money out, her head bent. She must not let him see the ill will that boiled inside her, the mistrust that would show in her eyes. “It should be enough to pay our debt and have our corn shelled and ground.” She tried to make her voice even and steady. “I’ll ask Pati and her brother to come with their wagon to carry it to the mill.”

  Still Ata glared at the note. Was he thinking what she was, that selling the peaches wouldn’t have brought in nearly enough yuan to do that?

  “We don’t need to tell Ana what happened today,” Mehrigul said, fighting back tears. But she couldn’t stop herself from saying more. “All the money must go to Mutalip for the corn,” she said as she thrust the note into his palm. “If there’s any left, it’s to be used for Lali’s school fees and clothes so she’ll look decent.”

  Ata gaped, then slowly closed his mouth to a straight, hard line. His eyes flared as he grabbed the money and jammed it into his pocket. “I will decide what’s to be done!”

  He turned and stomped to the cart. He flicked the willow whip at the donkey, who took off at a trot.

  Mehrigul stood frozen. She had bad feelings about what had just happened. And she wondered why, for that fleeting moment, the hundred yuan had given her the power to be disrespectful.

  As she stared at her empty hands, she understood. When she handed Ata the money, it was as if she was throwing away all hope of being in charge of her own future. A silly hope—she knew a hundred yuan was not enough to give her choices.

  Mehrigul watched the cart grow smaller and smaller, then ran, straining every muscle, stirring her own cloud of dust as she rushed to catch up. The old donkey jerked his head when she reached the cart. He knew Mehrigul was there. So did Ata, but he did not acknowledge her.

  “I’m sorry,” Mehrigul said, struggling for breath. “I shouldn’t have said that. You know what is best to do with the money.” Her arms hung at her sides as she labored to keep pace with the cart. “Please, Ata, give me permission to make more baskets. We need the money. When the lady comes back, you’ll see she’s honorable.”

  Ata slowed the donkey to a walk. Twisted his head to look at her. “You think she’ll come back, do you? People like that don’t keep their word.” He spat at the ground. “Besides, what makes you think one hundred yuan is so special? Girls working in factories around here make that much every month. I could lie about your age.”

  Ata picked up his whip and hit the donkey’s rump. “It’s men who are craftsmen, not women,” he said. “Don’t you dare waste your time on something so foolish. Dreamers like you are cleaved like an apple and thrown to the desert.”

  Mehrigul knew the proverb. She had no expectations that following a dream would lead to anything useful. She ran to catch the edge of the cart and pulled herself on as Ata gave the donkey another lashing.

  “You’re nothing but a peasant—and don’t forget it, as your brother did,” he called back over his shoulder, his voice louder with every word.

  Ata was right. She had been foolish. Foolish enough to believe that the American lady really did want to buy her baskets, and that she could make more that the lady would like. Especially foolish to presume that knowing Ata’s secret, and earning
her own money, gave her some kind of privilege.

  She leaned her head against the bag that held her grandfather’s baskets.

  Yet, in her belly, she sensed something new, something she couldn’t let pass by.

  A stranger had thought her simple twist of vines to be of value.

  Three

  THE CHILL OF AUTUMN was in the air as Mehrigul carried the last batch of peaches up the ladder to the roof. There’d been no call for help to prepare supper or to bring her grandfather to the evening meal. Her mother must have been told she was busy with chores. The sun had already joined the earth. It was past time to eat.

  Hunger hadn’t been on Mehrigul’s mind. The juicy pulp of yet one more peach stopped the rumble in her stomach. She went now to the front yard and rubbed her hands clean in the cold water from the spigot. She cupped her hands and splashed her face, letting the water drip over her shirt and vest.

  Still dripping, Mehrigul stood in the doorway, her eyes adjusting to the dim light of the oil lamp. Ata and the others sat cross-legged on the floor rugs, drinking tea. Broken pieces of naan lay scattered on the eating cloth; there was a bit of polo on the platter.

  Lali ran to Mehrigul. How good it was to have her sister’s arms squeeze her in greeting. “Oooh, you’re wet,” Lali said, as quickly pulling away.

  Ana scraped what was left of the rice mixture into a bowl and set it in front of Mehrigul’s eating place. “Tea?” she asked.

  “Yes . . . please.” Mehrigul was surprised at Ana’s attention. She was used to doing these things herself.

  Then she wondered if drinking warm tea was worth having to sit across from Ata. She wouldn’t look at him, but it was clear from Ana’s calm that they’d all been told of a successful day at market. Ata’s version. Whatever lie he’d made up.

  The strong, rich odor of mutton fat overruled her anger. Mehrigul scooped the rice into her mouth with her fingers. There was more fat than usual in tonight’s polo, but no pieces of mutton. The dark specks were raisins.

  It was Ata’s habit to bring home a small packet of mutton on market days. Memet had done this when he was in charge of going to market. Had Ata forgotten, or had he drunk and gambled away all the pitiful earnings he’d pocketed before wandering off? If her mother thought they’d sold their goods, wouldn’t she ask why Ata hadn’t brought meat? Mehrigul hoped she wouldn’t be called upon to explain.

  She leaned back, for the first time slowing her eating.

  “You were hungry, Daughter,” Ana said.

  Ana had been watching. Everyone had been watching.

  She straightened up, licked her fingers. “I had two eggs. Your friend the egg woman kindly gave them to me in exchange for peaches. Remember her, Ana?” Mehrigul turned toward her mother. “You used to be friends. She doesn’t even ask about you anymore.”

  Ana’s head dropped onto her chest. Mehrigul’s words had been unkind, but they were true, and for some reason she couldn’t hold them back tonight. If Ana were doing the work she was supposed to, Mehrigul might still be able to go to school. Many wives tended the goods from their farm at market. But Ana was too ashamed to be seen with their old donkey and cart, too ashamed to be seen in the washed-out clothing she wore. It had become Memet’s job three years ago, when he was old enough to go, while Ana stayed home wallowing in remembrance of the happy, comfortable childhood she had lived in her village.

  “How is Aynurkhan? It has been a long . . .” Ana’s voice trailed off.

  “She still sits by the pots and pans, the same busy spot.” Mehrigul’s words were slow and deliberate. She wanted Ata to hear what she was saying—wanted him to know that she had been only a few meters away from where he was gambling. Would he wonder if she’d seen him? She hoped so.

  “Hajinsa was there, too,” she went on, “perched on a mat she’d bought. Eating one egg after another as if she were an imperial princess.” Mehrigul extended her arm with the grace of a heron taking flight, her fingers rippling the air in imitation of Hajinsa picking at the eggshell. “So, you see, Ana, not much was talked of with Aynurkhan.”

  Lali giggled as her arms fluttered in imitation of her sister.

  With a sharp look at Mehrigul, Ata rose, and the moment of lightness passed. He’d heard her words. He knew that the egg seller sat near the gambling table. Still, he couldn’t know whether or not she’d seen him. Mehrigul was sure Ata would never ask her about that.

  Ata’s uncertainty would just be another reason why she and her father were not comfortable together. They never had been. Memet was all to Ata—his only son, the perfect one. Mehrigul was useful at times, dutiful, swift in her tasks, but dreamy, Ata complained. Distracted by the shapes and sounds of things, by her private thoughts.

  Like now. Ata had been speaking and her mind was far away. Ana would have to relay Mehrigul’s list of chores for the morning.

  “ . . . to the mill,” he said, “after the wheat is planted.”

  Mehrigul hoped that meant she might go to the mill to make arrangements to have the corn ground. She could see Pati. There was much to tell, and much to ask.

  “Did you hear me, Mehrigul?” Ata’s voice was hard-edged. “We get started at sunrise.”

  There was strained silence in the room as Ata went to the door.

  Only when Ata had returned from outside and gone to his sleeping platform did Mehrigul pick up her half-eaten piece of naan and dip it into her tepid tea. She leaned back on her haunches and sucked on it, drawing out as much of the oniony flavor as possible.

  Her full belly, the dim light, the heat still radiating from their small cooking stove, made Mehrigul sleepy. She finished her tea and abruptly stood. “I’ll help Chong Ata,” she said. Her grandfather was squatting across from her, a small bundle of old bones and sagging flesh. Hard of hearing, his eyesight poor.

  Aside from Lali, Chong Ata was the person she cared most about. She’d sat at his side by the hour from the time she was a small child. One by one, she’d handed him willow branches for his baskets as he crouched on the dirt floor of his workroom. She had nestled her bare feet next to his as he held down the branches to build a base. Watched as he wove the sides and lashed the rim. She’d learned to make her own little baskets. In time, she had been allowed to help make the baskets that went to market. Her fingers were shaped like Chong Ata’s. Not long and slender like Hajinsa’s but nimble and knowing like her grandfather’s.

  Mehrigul went to his side. “Time to go to sleep, Chong Ata,” she said, leaning over to speak close to his ear.

  He reached for her arm and leaned against her as she rocked him to an upright position.

  She helped him step into his shoes and led him to the yard so he could relieve himself. Then they went to his workroom. It was the only place her grandfather would sleep.

  “Good night, Chong Ata,” she said as she covered him with the felt rug.

  Tomorrow, when no one was around to overhear, she would tell him about the grapevine basket.

  Four

  MEHRIGUL GLIDED OVER THE open field as quietly as the morning mist, liking the blanket of cold dampness that engulfed her, the soft, shrouded light of the sun rising in its filmy haze. She’d left her sleeping platform, thrown on pants and shirt, and stolen from the house before Ana could call her to do breakfast chores. Lali was old enough to help.

  If Mehrigul went early to the field and prepared it for planting, there might be time at the end of the day to steal away and gather vines. And if she did? A tightness gripped her body. Could she really make another basket like the one the woman had bought?

  The thought was unsettling, yet her fingers danced in eagerness to try, even as she cleared the field of leftover ears of corn and carried them to the large pile of cobs that had been gathered for the mill. Scattered stalks needed to be picked up, too. What they didn’t need themselves could be sold at market as fodder and bedding.

  Mehrigul had begun to hoe seedbeds for the planting when Ana came onto the field, the seed bag hanging
from her waist. Every step she took told of her weariness, of the place she’d withdrawn to so no more unhappiness could reach her.

  “Where’s Ata?” Mehrigul said. “I have Memet’s hoe. Why isn’t Ata here with his hoe to help?” She lashed the words that had festered in her head at Ana, who clutched her arms in front of her.

  “Why . . . he has gone to see Mutalip . . . to arrange for him to pick up our corn.” Her bewildered eyes darted over Mehrigul’s face. “Surely you understood . . . you and I are to plant . . .” Ana lowered her head. “We had best get busy,” she said.

  “Yes, Ana. Sorry. I should have been listening to what he said.”

  Mehrigul lowered Memet’s hoe to the large field of unturned earth that stretched before her. She dug down—not too deep, not too shallow—and began again to furrow the seedbed for their crop of winter wheat. “I told him I’d arrange for Pati’s brother to carry our corn to the mill,” she said. “I thought Ata would help so the planting could get done before the warmth of the day dried out the topsoil.”

  If Ana heard, she didn’t answer. She kept moving with measured pace, doubled over at the waist, dropping pinches of seeds inch by inch along the prepared rows.

  Ana didn’t seem to mind that Ata had abandoned them, but Mehrigul did. Her grip tightened with each jab of the hoe, the splintery wood boring into her palms until the pain brought her to reality. She couldn’t twist and weave unwieldy vines into something of importance with injured hands. Blisters had already begun to form on her hands. She didn’t want to make them worse.

  Right now Mehrigul must focus only on the long task ahead. It seemed likely that Ana knew nothing about the unsold peaches or the magical appearance of one hundred yuan—or didn’t want to know. Ata was faultless. Surely, she thought bitterly, it was his job to drive off in the donkey cart and spend her money while they worked the field.