Twenty-Two
MY HANDS COULDN’T WEAVE, Chong Ata . . . I had to do something else. It’s almost a basket . . . or, I think of it as one.” Doubt flooded Mehrigul’s mind. She hung her head. “At least I didn’t spoil the bamboo. It can be used again.”
“Why don’t you show me what you made, Mehrigul? I’d like to see it.”
Mehrigul noticed Ana standing by the door as she reached for the sack that had held the bamboo. She didn’t want her to see. Only Chong Ata would pass judgment.
“I would like you to show me, and your ana as well,” Chong Ata said. “You would honor her by letting her see what you have done.”
Slowly, Mehrigul lowered the sides of the bag.
There it was before her, as tall as the distance between her elbow and the tip of her hand, as wide as her ten fingers at the top. Beautiful narrow strips of bamboo flowing freely upward from a firm base. Mehrigul caught her breath in wonder that her hands had made such a remarkable thing—or so she thought, again, for a fleeting moment. She turned away. She knew you couldn’t just gather some bamboo together and call it a basket.
Chong Ata was looking and not saying anything.
“It’s not to sell, Chong Ata,” she said quickly. “I made it for you. It was jus. . . .what the bamboo told me to do.”
Chong Ata leaned closer to the object before him. Without touching it, his hands flowed upward with the graceful rise of the bamboo.
Mehrigul waited. Stopped breathing. She’d thought that at least Chong Ata might like it as a present. But there were no tears in his eyes, as there had been before when she showed him her special woven baskets. This time he seemed to be smiling, almost laughing. She closed her eyes, ashamed she’d thought her work might have some worth.
Then Chong Ata spoke. “I would be most pleased to have your basket as a gift, but I want you to show it to the American lady. If she likes it as much as I do, you must let her have it.” He sat back, his gaze still fixed on the work before him.
“You like it then, Chong Ata, and I can call it a basket?” She had heard his words, but the meaning hadn’t gotten through to her mind. “I shouldn’t feel ashamed?”
“Not ashamed, Mehrigul. Proud.”
Mehrigul hadn’t noticed Ana moving toward them until she knelt at their side.
“I will make a clean cotton bag to carry your basket in,” Ana said. “We can wrap it so it will be protected on the way to market.”
Mehrigul shot a fierce glance at Ana. She’d spoken of protecting it. But if Ata stormed in and said he wanted it, would she let him have it?
Ana’s help was too late. The dirty bag that was cushioning it would do. Mehrigul turned away, only to see Chong Ata shaking his head.
“Thank you, Ana.” Mehrigul forced the words through her clamped jaw. Hating that Ana was spoiling her special moment with Chong Ata. Wanting, if only for a brief time, to enjoy the happiness she felt about having a basket to show Mrs. Chazen. She wouldn’t have to run away and hide if the American lady really did come back.
“Let me see your hands, Mehrigul,” Chong Ata said.
She had already removed the wrapping from her left hand. She held it out, not surprised to see it was still swollen, with reddened blotches.
“And your other hand.”
Mehrigul tried not to wince as Chong Ata began to remove the bandage. She looked away and saw Ana’s hands cover her eyes. Then Ana quickly rose and disappeared into the house.
By the time Chong Ata had removed all the covering, Ana was back with water and a new paste of crushed herbs. Clean pieces of white cloth hung over her arm. Together, Chong Ata and Ana tended Mehrigul’s wounds. Nothing soothed her hands. She steeled herself against the pain, knowing she must have faith in the healing power of the medicine her grandfather spread over her raw flesh.
It was Ana who dressed her hands, using the softest, most precious cotton she had stored away. “I’m sorry, Mehrigul,” Ana said. “I should have been in the field helping you. I’ve not been much use to anyone lately . . . I’m sorry.”
Mehrigul knew she should respond, but what could she say? That it didn’t matter? That she understood and forgave Ana? Neither was true. She nodded and said nothing.
“If you like . . . I will try to help you bathe . . . and wash your hair,” Ana said as she finished tying the bandage. “So you’ll be read. . . .for tomorrow.”
Almost against her will, Mehrigul let herself be drawn in by Ana’s gentle words. “Yes, Ana,” she said, the taut muscles in her body softening until she wondered if she could hold herself up. “Thank you.”
Maybe the doctor’s teas—and learning the truth about Ata—had begun to bring her ana back to them.
Lali, Chong Ata, and Mehrigul ate in peace, kneeling around the platter of rice and peppers that was set before them. Ana brought a treat of freshly made cornmeal-and-onion cakes when she joined them. No one mentioned Ata’s absence or the missing donkey and cart. Lali, freed from his grim presence, told stories of her school day.
“My friend taught me a new dance,” she said, springing up, her arms above her head moving in wavelike gestures. Then, slowly, she began to circle her wrists, crossing them in graceful arcs, then bending her hands away in lovely curves, all in rhythm to the simple folk tune she sang. Chong Ata clapped in time, and soon Ana joined him. Mehrigul hummed along as she swayed her body.
Now every part of Lali was moving. She turned her neck with little fast shakes. Then bent sideways, backwards, still giving her little shakes. She picked up her skirt and pointed her toe, her legs copying the fast, shivery movements that Uyghur dancers make as she took three steps forward and then slid her foot backwards with a small kick. The more they clapped, the more lively her dance. Chong Ata’s head began to tilt and shake.
As Mehrigul got up to dance with her sister, Ata came through the doorway, sucking the music and laughter from the room. Lali ran to hide behind Ana. Mehrigul froze, the shivering in her legs no longer in time to the music.
Ata didn’t seem to see them or to have heard them. He moved with heavy gait and slumped beside the eating cloth, his eyes wide in bewilderment, or was it fear?
“What is it?” Mehrigul said, her voice wavering. Something terrible had brought Ata to this state—the Han were taking the farm from them, or he’d heard that Memet was in prison or shot dead.
Ata’s mouth worked, but the sound was swallowed inside him. He rocked back and forth.
“What’s happened?” Mehrigul pleaded. She was beside Ata, close enough to know there was no stink from wine, which doubled her fears. “Tell us!”
“A message . . . from Memet. He’s left Kashgar. I wasn’t told how or why. Only that he wouldn’t be safe there anymore. He’ll cross the Chinese border and go through the mountain pass into Kyrgyzstan. We are to know no more. We can’t expect to hear from him . . . maybe . . . for years . . .”
An eerie wail rose from Ana’s throat.
“Yes. Cry!” Ata hurled the words at Ana as he lurched to his feet and bolted toward the door. “Our son might as well be dead to us!”
Mehrigul listened to Ana’s sobs. To Lali’s whimpers as she pulled at Ana’s arm.
Silently, Mehrigul got up. She walked out into the yard and crept along the shadows so there would be no chance of meeting Ata. Moved deep into their fields until she was certain she was alone, then fell to her knees. She bowed her head but kept her voice strong.
“Thank you, Allah,” she said. “Thank you for keeping Memet safe.” He had not been shot or swallowed up by the desert. He had a chance now to begin a new life. Even as she had these thoughts, she wept for the loss of her brother. Maybe forever.
As her cries fell silent, she told her heart the truth she knew. Memet could never return to his life here, at the end of their narrow, poplar-lined lane. He could never bring a young bride here. As much as Memet loved his family and his home, he knew that, too. He had tried to change things and failed.
The chill of the night
air enveloped Mehrigul as she looked out at the stark silhouette of leafless trees, a harbinger of the long, cold winter ahead. Fallen leaves scuttled across the field, stirred by the winds blowing from the Taklamakan. The winds that had from time unknown swept over their land, trying to bury them under layers of drifting sand.
The Uyghurs had learned to hold back the desert. It was neither friend nor enemy. But the Han sweeping over their land were nothing like the ebb and flow of drifting sands. The Han had come to stay. And they’d driven Memet away.
And we who are still here—what should we do? Do we have a choice? Mehrigul squeezed her knees against her body, folding herself into a tight ball—against the cold air and the powers that were overwhelming her people. Those who stayed had to do what the cadre ordered. And someone in a far-off place was telling him what to do. Someone who didn’t like the sound of their beautiful Uyghur language, or the way they lived. Someone who didn’t seem to want them here.
Their lives were changing faster and faster. With her whole being, Mehrigul recoiled from the idea of following Memet into an unfamiliar world. She had no yearning to live in a city or to work in a factory. Hadn’t Memet warned her? The song haunted her memory. Don’t be taken in, Sister, he’d sung. Don’t be taken in.
When the cadre came around with his papers, Mehrigul would have no choice. Ata would sign the lie about her age, and she would be sent thousands of miles away.
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.
Twenty-Three
THE 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.”
Twenty-Four
ATA 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.
The Vine Basket Page 12