The Vine Basket (11 page)

“Why is stealing our money so different from stealing my baskets? Tell me!” Mehrigul's voice pierced the stillness and hung in the air around them.

Hung in the darkness of the night that had enveloped them.

Ana leaned her face away. Stared at the ground. “Your father has a heavy heart,” she said in a hushed voice. “When your brother left, he gave up all hope. The world around us is one he no longer understands.”

“You're saying it's all right for us to go without food? For me to give up school? So he can wander off and drink and gamble?”

“He drinks too much. Many of your father's friends do.” Ana paused. “He needs the money, Mehrigul, so he can keep his place among them, keep their friendships. It's all he has now.”

“Ana,” Mehrigul said, “my baskets are gone. Money you might have had to help get through the winter . . . is gone! You gave up your friends when we no longer had money. Why is this so different—that he has to steal?”

“Your father is troubled. He's not dishonest. You're wrong to accuse him.” Ana pulled away, and Mehrigul let her go. Had all she could do to not push her away.

Why had Mehrigul thought Ana might change if she knew what Ata had done? She might as well have been talking to their old donkey.

She'd make more baskets. Hide them in a place no one could possibly find. She'd meet with Mrs. Chazen. She'd buy them. Or not.

Then what? Mrs. Chazen would go back to America. Mehrigul would be sent away . . .

“Go fix yourself some tea, Ana,” she said. “I'm sure you could use a good night's sleep.”

L
ALI NESTLED SO TRUSTINGLY
against her gave Mehrigul reason to begin a new day. Daylight strained into the room through dust-gray windows. How quickly the rain had given way to winds from the desert, coating the windows once again with fine grains of sand.

No one stirred. Mehrigul tucked the blanket around Lali and slid quietly from the platform. She put on pants, shirt, vest—the same dirty, gritty clothes she'd crawled out of the night before—and went about building a fire in their cookstove, grateful that there'd been a few twigs left in reserve. One of her chores today would be to collect more kindling. Nothing was left of the pile that once stood beside the house.

She walked outside to fill the kettle, then put it on to boil. She found one last piece of naan in the tin. That would be for Lali. If Mehrigul built a fire in the earth oven, maybe Ana would rally enough to bake more.

Mehrigul woke Lali with a finger to her lips. When Lali's eyes popped open, she understood and played the game of being extra quiet. She tiptoed. Hugged her favorite red and green sweater with a noiseless squeal. Her face fell when she knelt to drink tea and saw the pitiful chunk of dried naan beside it. Still, she dunked and chewed as quietly as a mouse.

Once outside, Lali pulled Mehrigul faster and faster toward the roadway. “Can I talk now?” she asked.

Mehrigul nodded.

“Tai hao la,”
Lali said. “That's great.” She grabbed Mehrigul's hands and tried to turn her round. “Do you know what I want to be?”

“
Bu zhi dao, gao su wo.
No, tell me,” Mehrigul said.

“A dancer. Someone who sings and dances and is famous on television.”

“How do you know about that?” Mehrigul caught Lali, tugged her close.

“My friend tells me all about it,” Lali said, her cheeks flushed with excitement. “Uyghur girls can sing and dance in hotels and make lots of money. I'd live in a big city with my friend.” She broke away. Twirling. Dancing with lively steps.

“You're very good, Lali,” Mehrigul called. “I love to watch you. Come, give me a hug before you leave for school.”

Mehrigul's arms engulfed Lali when her sister danced to her. She held Lali close until her body stilled. “You can be very popular right here, singing and dancing at weddings. You must practice and learn all the Uyghur songs.” She lifted Lali's face, brushing aside the wispy bangs that peeked out from her headscarf.

“But today,” Mehrigul said in Mandarin, “you will pay close attention to your studies. Get the highest marks. And be better than anyone else at speaking Mandarin. For I believe you, Lali, will make a very good teacher.” She held Lali at arm's length, made sure she was listening. “That is what I want you to be.”

Lali squeezed her cheeks. “Teachers are old and fussy . . . and bossy. I don't want to be one.” She flipped her head from side to side.

“You have lots of time to think about it. For now, do the best you can.” Mehrigul put her arm around her sister and led her to the road. The family who picked Lali up were heading toward them in their donkey cart. “We can pretend I'm your student and you can give me lessons on the important things you learn each day.” Mehrigul's face lost its gentleness as she turned Lali toward her; she must make her sister understand how important it was. “That way I'll know exactly how you are doing.”

Lali pulled away. “Sounds fun,” she called over her shoulder as she skipped off and hopped onto the cart.

And if Mehrigul were sent away, who would guide her sister? Who would take care of her precious Lali?

 

Mehrigul thought only of Lali and Chong Ata as she did her chores. She hated that Ata and Ana might benefit from her work. Ata, away selling her baskets. Ana, on her sleeping platform, her body still crouched in the corner.

Mehrigul glared at Ana and gave an extra punch to the dough she was kneading. She banged pots to make as much noise as she could before slamming the door on her way outside. She had to search for dry, seasoned wood to build the fire in the earth oven.

Ana was up and dressed when Mehrigul returned. She stood looking at the bowl of dough. She seemed surprised it was there, perhaps wondering when she had made it. Which offered little promise that this would be one of Ana's good days.

“The fire's ready. Think you could bake bread for us?” Mehrigul asked, her voice coming out even nastier than she'd meant it to.

For a moment Ana looked at Mehrigul, her mouth set in a straight, hard line. Then she picked up the bowl and headed outside.

There was something in her mother's expression, in the way she walked, that made Mehrigul regret the tone she'd used. Had hearing the truth about Ata begun to unlock the self-pitying stupor Ana had chosen to live in? Maybe this jolt of reality would remind her that there were problems greater than the bitterness she harbored toward her own sad existence. With that, and her teas, could she at least begin to deal with life again? Would she ever realize how much Lali needed her?

How could Mehrigul possibly leave—be sent away—if Ana couldn't even bake naan?

Something had to happen. Soon. But right now there was only Ana to count on, and Ana had better learn to live in the real world, or Lali might end up dancing in a hotel. Or worse.

Mehrigul knew that unleashing her own anger at Ana was not helpful. For Lali's sake, she must try to support Ana, make her more useful. Besides, she was hungry. If Ana baked, she could get a few of her own chores done.

By the time Mehrigul had sprinkled water on the earthen floors of their house and swept away the storm's dirt and sand, picked weeds from the garden and fed them to the donkey, and collected kindling from the far reaches of their farm, Ana had managed the baking. Mehrigul sat with Chong Ata, relishing the taste of the fresh naan.

The respite was short-lived. The field out by the peach trees was to be planted with winter wheat while Ata was away. Mehrigul hated the good-daughter part of herself that compelled her to do what Ata had ordered. It was to be done by his return, and today would be best. The ground had been softened by the rain.

With steps of lead, Mehrigul headed for the shed to get the hoe. Ata should be here planting wheat. Not away selling her baskets while she had only five days left to make new ones.

Resentment spread through her body like a weed, creeping into her mind as she headed for the field. What was Ata doing? Drinking? Gambling? Spending the money he made from her baskets?

Mehrigul hacked at the earth with no intent to make neat and tidy rows, until sweat and tears clouded her eyes and she stopped. She dropped the hoe and walked away, heading for the stand of bamboo. She would make more baskets. She'd take them to the American lady. If the lady liked them . . . Mehrigul was almost afraid to think of the happiness that would bring her. It was so far removed from the life she lived right now.

She quickly retrieved the bundle of grapevines she'd stored among the bamboo culms. Squatting in the middle of her hidden retreat, she placed them before her. For a moment she closed her eyes, sat quietly until the memory of the first cone-shaped basket she'd made came to her.

“Choose five stems,” she told herself. “Long enough to fold and make ten rods.”

One of the sharp ends scraped her palm. “Ouch.” She dropped the stem. Blood covered the cut. But she saw something that worried her more. Her hands were blotchy red and swollen from gripping the rough handle of the hoe. Would her fingers still be able to feel the hidden magic in a branch?

Even if she worked and worked, it would be years before she could make a basket that had the beauty of the one she'd seen in the museum. She wanted so badly to learn, to try. Which would be worse—working in a factory where she could make no baskets at all, or working on the farm until her hands were ruined?

With greater care, she sorted through the bundle, picking out the longest and most supple vines. Even as she set them aside, she knew they would not do. They could not be bent easily. They needed to be moistened, or she would have to cut new vines.

Mehrigul sat back on her heels, motionless, with no good plan for making even a simple basket today—if she still knew how. A shiver passed through her. She squeezed herself into a tight ball, wrapping her arms around her legs, overcome with fear that her fingers had lost their power. The vines were old and dry, and they'd taken no form in her mind. Her fingers had no urge to turn unwieldy vines into something that might be good enough to hang from a donkey cart.

She'd made so few baskets of her own. Had they really been special? Chong Ata had said he liked them, but maybe only to please her. Pati had liked them.

The thought of Pati disturbed her. She couldn't erase the picture of her walking away at the market. Her closeness with Hajinsa. Could Ana be right? Had Hajinsa schemed with Pati to steal her baskets? Hajinsa might do a thing like that, but never Pati.

Mehrigul fell back against the bamboo. She watched, unmoving, as the light that filtered through the culms began to dim. Watched as the gentle flutter of the long, narrow leaves changed, carried now by a stronger wind from the north that brought cold night air. Her token stirred with the leaves. Perhaps the favor of her wish had been used up.

No basket would be made today. And tomorrow? There were only four days left.

As she emerged from the bamboo grove she heard Lali. “Mehrigul! Mehrigul!” her sister called, her voice like the howl of a frightened animal.

Mehrigul hurried down the road. Rounding the bend, she saw Lali on the roof, turning in one direction then another, her hands cupped around her mouth, calling.

“I'm coming!” Mehrigul shouted.

Lali scrambled down the ladder and ran toward her. “Why weren't you here to meet me when I got home?” Lali wailed. “You always are. No one knew where you'd gone.” She tightened her arms around Mehrigul.

The sisters stood clasped together in the middle of the road. Mehrigul felt the racing of Lali's heart. She hugged her sister closer, tighter. She'd thought it a blessing for Lali to be young, not to realize that they had a mother who could no longer cope. A father so often not there, or cross, or stumbling in his steps. But Lali did see and know all this, in her way.

“You're squeezing too tight, Mehrigul,” Lali said, but she didn't try to pull away.

“Oh, Lali,” Mehrigul said, holding her sister's face in her hands, planting kisses on her forehead. “Wherever I am . . . I'll always be thinking of you.”

The pressure in Mehrigul's chest grew almost to bursting when she saw tears streaming from Lali's eyes. Mehrigul wiped them away with her fingers as her own eyes filled. Lali must not see her cry.

She put her arm around Lali's shoulders and guided her down the road. Lali's arm slid around Mehrigul, her sister's shirt clutched tightly in her fist.

“You do know that you're exceptionally clever, quite capable of taking care of yourself. Don't you?” Mehrigul asked. “You must remember that.” She tried not to let the urgency of the message creep into her voice. Lali's innocence scared her. Mehrigul had coddled Lali when she should have been making her tough.

Lali was slowly bobbing her head as she chewed her lip. “Okay,” she answered in a tearful voice.

It was a long moment before Mehrigul could find more words, and the strength to say them. Her powerlessness to change things was not useful to Lali.

“Are you ready with my lesson for today?” she asked.

“Um-huh,” Lali mumbled.

“We better begin right now, then.”

“All right,” Lali said, nodding agreement.

Mehrigul could feel her sister's fist loosen its grip.

“Here we go.
Jintian, wo men xue xi niao he shu.
Today we study birds and trees . . .”

I
T WAS
S
ATURDAY
. Lali was home, shadowing Mehrigul's every move, every footstep. When the chance finally came to send Lali to the garden with Ana to pick a few vegetables, Mehrigul gently pushed her sister away.

As soon as Ana and Lali left the yard, Mehrigul went to Chong Ata's workroom. “I must talk to you,” she said, kneeling beside him. “It's about my baskets. I . . . I no longer have them.”