The Vine Basket (12 page)

Chong Ata stopped weaving.

“Ata took them with him to sell when he went on pilgrimage. He didn't ask if he could, but I'm certain he took them.” The minute the words were out, the doubt, the thought that she had no real proof made her draw back. “Anyway,” she said, “they're gone.”

Her voice had lowered, but she knew Chong Ata had heard. It seemed as if a veil had covered his face.

“I guess I don't really know that he did. But if it was Ata who took them,” Mehrigul went on, “Ana said it was his right, because he would know best what to do with them. Only . . . I wanted so badly to take them to the American lady.” Her outpouring of words slowed.

“I'm sorry, Chong Ata, to tell you this—to bother you. I thought I could just make more,” she said. “But . . . I haven't. I'm not certain I know how anymore. My fingers . . .” Mehrigul couldn't go on. She hoped Chong Ata didn't see she was crying.

He still held the basket he'd been weaving. His fingers began to work again.

“There is willow in the bundle behind me that is moist and ready to be woven,” he said calmly. “Gather what you need to make a simple basket, as I do, for market.”

 

Mehrigul's fingers, which had failed her earlier, were again swift and knowing as she followed the rhythm of Chong Ata's weaving. A wave of relief passed over her. Perhaps she had not lost her touch. “Six turnips will already fit into the base of my basket, Chong Ata. Is it time to start the sides?”

“Yes,” Chong Ata said. “That will make a basket good enough for a woman to use in the kitchen.”

Mehrigul smiled. Chong Ata was a wise man.

Mehrigul was still of easy mind when Lali planted herself beside her. “Help Ana in the kitchen,” she told her sister. “All right, Lali? I'll be right here. We'll have time together later.”

Lali stayed and chattered on. When neither her sister nor her grandfather paid any attention to her, she went inside.

Mehrigul's fingers kept their rhythm as she wove willow branches into the sides of her basket, worked the border.

When Mehrigul placed her finished basket in front of Chong Ata, he took her hands in his. Held them. Held them until they trembled beyond control. Trembled until the fragile twine that had held her together gave way to a desperation she could no longer keep inside.

Chong Ata's grip tightened and held fast while Mehrigul fought to catch her breath through the sobs that shook her body.

When her gulps for air turned into a deep sigh, Chong Ata loosened his hold. His fingers caressed her hands.

“Your fingers have not lost their magic. What is still bothering you, Granddaughter?”

Knowing that he cared, that he understood, she wrapped her arms around him in a hug of relief.

“Oh, Chong Ata,” she said. “The American lady comes in four days. I have only three days left to make baskets.” She sat back on her heels. “Ata will be here tomorrow and then I'll have to do it in secret. He's forbidden me to make more baskets. He says it's useless, that the lady won't come back anyway.

“But I still want to!” she cried. “More than anything I've ever cared about.”

Chong Ata sat quietly, studying Mehrigul. His head shook slowly. “Cut new vines,” he said. “They will be supple. You can begin to work right away. Remember, they'll shrink when they dry. You must account for that.”

He put the knife that was at his side into Mehrigul's hand. “Go now,” he said. “I'll speak to your mother and keep your sister busy.”

 

With an armful of fresh-cut grapevines, Mehrigul settled right where she was, in front of the patch. As she began to trim the vines, cutting off leaves, she decided to strip them, to peel away the shreddy bark. She liked the smoother feeling. She'd start again with a cornucopia, but the one she made today would be more refined, less rustic than the one Mrs. Chazen had bought. She was still careful to leave all the tendrils that grew from the leaf scars. The wispy spirals would add a special touch.

When the rods and weavers, trimmed and cut to size, were in place before her, she sat back. She closed her eyes but did not pray. She listened for the sounds of silence, like the rustle of autumn leaves being stirred by the breeze. She breathed in the sweet smell of a rotting peach that had somehow escaped their harvest. This was the peace she needed to begin her work.

Mehrigul opened her eyes. There, before her, was the peach orchard with its almost bare branches. To the far side of the orchard was the untilled field. And in the field was the hoe she'd cast aside.

“No.” She shook her head back and forth. “I'll make three baskets. Then I'll prepare the field. This is my work, Ata!”

Within a short time Mehrigul was passing weavers through the rods. Mindful of Chong Ata's caution, she made a looser weave, trying to envision what it might become when the moisture left the vines and the basket became smaller. She was comforted by the realization that the cornucopia she'd made before had looked all right, when she wasn't even thinking it might shrink.

Her hands didn't flow with the same grace she'd felt while working with Chong Ata. She thought that must be because of the more rugged vine. Willow was easier to move about.

She ran out of weavers. She stopped, prepared more, growing anxious that it was taking longer than she'd hoped.

Again, she squeezed her eyes shut. She must stop her heart from racing. Calm her breathing.

“All right,” she whispered to herself. “Two baskets. I'll try to make two.”

Mehrigul picked up a weaver. There was a slight tremor in her hands, but her stomach rumbled and she thought the trembling could be caused by hunger. She knew how to go without food. That was not as hard as forgetting about the thrown-down hoe. About Ata. About the baskets she no longer had to show to Mrs. Chazen.

Again Mehrigul forced herself to block out everything but the sounds around her—the faint buzz of a bee, the scampering of a squirrel. Loudest was the chatter of birds. Feeding. It was their feeding time—and she'd not made even one basket.

Nothing mattered now but finishing. She had at least five centimeters to add before beginning the border. As quickly as she could, she worked the weavers. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. Round and round and round. She widened the rods as she came closer and closer to the top. Her hand cramped. She rubbed her fingers. Pushed on.

The border. And finally, a small handle to hang it from. Her donkey-cart basket had that. Mrs. Chazen would want a handle. She bent a thin rod in half, attached it to the border. Plaiting the two parts, she created a short arch and fastened it to the other end.

Mehrigul placed the finished work in front of her.

Her basket looked like a bunch of ugly sticks.

She folded her hands in front of her. Took another look. Much of the weaving was even. It held a good cone shape. Mehrigul grabbed the basket. She used the knife to fix spaces that were too wide or too narrow. She hid the loose ends that had escaped when she'd begun to use a new weaver.

Again she placed the basket on the ground and stared at it. Then at her hands. She was confused. They'd done what she told them to. They'd made a basket. Only . . . not a basket worthy of a hundred yuan. She knew that.

There was no grace, no beauty in what she'd made.

“Why?” She asked herself the question but had no answer.

She tried to envision the cornucopia she'd made for Memet. As she saw it more clearly in her mind's eye, her face released into a soft smile. Now she knew. She had woven happiness into her basket for Memet.

She looked at the cornucopia in front of her. Anger had been woven into this basket.

Mehrigul raised herself from the ground and with the heel of her shoe crushed the basket into the earth.

W
ILL THERE BE SQUASH
to take to market on Wednesday, Ana?” Mehrigul said as the family sat at breakfast.

Ana finished sipping her tea, laid down the bowl. “The few that are left we'll need for ourselves.”

“What will we take, then? Chong Ata has baskets ready, but would Ata go with only baskets?” Mehrigul tried to hide her alarm. They had to go to market. She hadn't thought about what might happen after the harvest. Ata and Memet had always worried about that before. She'd been at school.

“It's time to sell cornstalks and husks,” Ana said. “Only”—she looked away—“your father . . . he'll be upset. So much was scattered by the wind.”

“Why didn't you say so? We could have picked them up. Had it done before he returns today. He could be here any minute.” Mehrigul jumped to her feet. “Eat up, Lali,” she said. “We have a job to do.”

“Who'd want to buy cornhusks?” Lali asked as she stuffed a large piece of naan into her mouth.

“People who want food for their donkeys, or goats, or sheep.” Mehrigul thrust her hand out to Lali. Pulled her up. “That's why I went to the trouble of peeling the husks from every single cob of corn we grew . . . and put them in a neat pile.”

Mehrigul dragged Lali over to get their jackets. “So,” she said, “you and I are going out to pick up the stalks and husks that blew away.” She looked over her shoulder. “How about you, Ana? Will you help? Or sit all day with your tea?” Mehrigul hadn't planned for her words to be cold-hearted. But if Ana was worried about how Ata would react, why hadn't she been out picking up husks? She wasn't an invalid.

Or maybe she was, Mehrigul thought.

Ana's hands stayed clasped tight, in front of her.

When Mehrigul stooped to grab the naan that was still at her place, she saw Chong Ata's head bowed low. For his sake, she regretted what she'd said. But she wouldn't take it back.

She headed for the door.

 

“We'll count every time we pick up a stalk,” Lali announced. “That will be your lesson for today, Mehrigul.” Many of the stalks had been blown only a short distance from the neat, round stack.
“Yi, er,”
she counted in Mandarin, picking up those nearest and throwing them onto the pile.

Mehrigul retrieved the stalks. “As they grow—bottom to top round the pile,” she said, replacing them. “That is the way it's done.”

Lali shrugged.

“San, si, wu, liu, qi, ba, jiu,”
Mehrigul said, placing more against the pile.

Lali scurried away. Picked up more.
“Shi, shiyi, shier,”
she sang out.

The game went on. That is what it was. For a while there was almost joy in running around with her sister, seeing who could pick up the most stalks and count the fastest.

“
Sanbai,
three hundred!” Lali's voice was triumphant. She'd run a distance with her one stalk to say the big number.

“There're more out there. Let's each get two more armloads. Then we'll start picking up husks.”

“No,” Lali groaned, sinking to the ground. “I'm tired. You said I should be a teacher. What good is it to know how to do this?”

Mehrigul hunched down next to Lali. She took the naan from her pocket. Broke off half and gave it to her. “We do this because it brings us money, and money is needed to buy your books and other things.”

Lali with a crumpled face was so sweet, and so sad. “Why are you looking at me like that, Mehrigul?”

“Because, when you pout, you're adorable.” Mehrigul put her arms around her sister, hugged her close.

“No,” Lali said, trying to break away. “I mean it. I don't want to work anymore.”

“It has to be done, and I don't want to do it alone. That's fair, isn't it?”

Lali shook her head. “I guess so.”

“Enough rest, then,” Mehrigul said. “Two more armfuls of stalks. Then we'll use sacks to collect the husks—the big one for me, the small one for you—and start way back in the peach orchard. Husks fly like birds with the wind behind them.”

And Lali became a bird, swooping and flapping across the stubble of the cornfield, gliding under the branches of the peach trees.

When they returned, dragging their bags across the field, Ana was picking up husks near the house. Lali ran ahead, opening her bag to show Ana all she'd collected. From the movement of Lali's arms and body, Mehrigul knew she was telling Ana how husks could fly.

Ana was still holding Lali close when Mehrigul reached them. She tried to bring back a memory of a time when Ana had held her. None came. Mehrigul had been a disappointment. Ata had hoped for another boy. She knew from Memet that Ata blamed Ana for having a girl. That, and she was certain she'd never been as cute and lovable as Lali. Even Ata seemed to like Lali and let her get away with things.

Mehrigul worked at the far ends of the corn stubble. Ana and Lali stayed closer to the pile, picking husks at a slower pace, both looking out toward the road whenever they straightened up. Soon Mehrigul did it, too—watched for Ata to come down the road. Listened for the rumble of the truck.

The longer they waited for Ata's return, the more Ana wandered about, forgetting to pick up husks. Slipping further and further into that place she went, that lifeless place where she could escape the realities of her world.

“Take Ana into the house, Lali,” Mehrigul said at last. “Help her prepare food. Ata will want to eat when he comes home.”

 

After collecting another full bag, Mehrigul took the emptied sacks to the shed. She'd done enough, and knew no reason why she must wait around for Ata's return when she could be making a basket. She went to Chong Ata for a moment. Watched him weave. She didn't speak to him about her failure. Nor did she allow herself to think she might fail again.

“Chong Ata, may I borrow your knife?” It was lying on the ground in front of him. She knew he wouldn't need it for a while. “I need to cut more vines,” she said.

He nodded. “Use it well, Granddaughter. It is now
our
knife.” He reached for it and placed it in Mehrigul's hands.