The Vine Basket (14 page)

There was little comfort this time from the chill of the water.

When Mehrigul went back inside, Lali was already on their platform, her head nestled on her pillow. Ana, too, had lain down. It was Chong Ata who sat, awake, on the side of a platform.

“Show me your hands,” he said, and Mehrigul knew Lali had said enough for Chong Ata to guess the truth. She held out her hands.

“There are herbs that will help. I'll grind them and make a paste.”

Chong Ata got up and removed three small wooden boxes from their place above the food shelf, scooped a portion from each into a bowl, and ground the herbs with a pestle. He added water to make a smooth paste and spread it over Mehrigul's fingers and palms. He went to Ana's sewing box and took out soft white cotton, which he cut into strips and wrapped loosely around Mehrigul's hands. “This will begin the healing,” he said.

He touched her forehead with his fingers, until she lifted her face. “We will see what tomorrow brings.”

“Thank you, Chong Ata,” she said, trying to keep the pain and the hope that was lost from showing in her voice.

When Mehrigul was certain Chong Ata was sleeping, she fixed some of Ana's tea for herself and drank it. She knew what tomorrow would bring. Her only wish now was to sleep.

M
EHRIGUL WOKE AT DAWN
, groggy from deep sleep. She brought her hands up to rub her eyes and felt the bandages. There was pain as she laid her fingers and palms against her cheeks, but no smell of blood. The throbbing had quieted.

Mehrigul inched out of bed, surprised to see she was fully clothed, with no memory of how she got to bed the night before.

She stood by the window. Unraveled the bandages. Her left hand appeared somewhat normal, but not her right hand. The loose skin that hung from the broken blisters did little to protect the tender flesh underneath. She opened and closed her fingers, testing to see what her stiff, swollen hands could do.

It didn't matter anymore. She'd resigned herself to doing whatever Ata asked, at least with her left hand, in her own time.

The other members of the household began to stir. Mehrigul tucked the bandages into her sleeve, slid into her shoes, and went outside to gather kindling. By the time she returned, Ana was up and had Lali dressing for school.

“Would you start the fire this morning, Ana?”

Ana didn't ask why. She took the sling that held the sticks from Mehrigul's arm. Mehrigul busied herself getting water, preparing rose-hip tea, making things as normal as possible for Lali, who moved in silence, her lips quivering when Ata came to take his place at breakfast.

Only Chong Ata sat calmly, eating with steady determination. He didn't seem interested in knowing how she was, though her eyes sought his.

Mehrigul would eat, too. She wanted tea. She gripped the bowl with her left hand but had to press it against her right palm to lift it. She swallowed her gasp as pain shot through her. She couldn't do it.

If anyone saw, they made no comment.

The naan lay in broken chunks on the eating cloth. She soaked a piece in her tea, leaving it longer than usual before bringing it to her mouth. That was the way she'd have tea this morning.

Ata sat back, still chewing on naan. “Hurry up, Mehrigul,” he said. “There's a lot to do to get ready for market. Bind the cornstalks first. Make plenty of bundles. We may want to make two trips tomorrow. And don't make them too generous; they'll sell for the same.”

“Mehrigul will not be able to help you today,” Chong Ata said. “She needs time to perform another task, and to heal her hands.” There was a power in Chong Ata's voice that didn't seem to come from his frail body.

Ata stood to his full height, towering over them. An ugly smirk crossed his face. “Listen,” he said, cocking his ear toward Chong Ata. “There's thunder in the air. The old man storms, and look.” He pointed to the window. “No rain.” He laughed. “There's nothing there.”

Ata's eyes flashed as he lunged at Mehrigul. Grabbed her hands. “A few blisters? Good. When they turn to calluses you'll be worth your salt.” He pushed her hands away. “Now get busy. You're a peasant. Do your job.”

“No, my son. You have overstepped,” Chong Ata said. “Remember the words of our sacred text: ‘Our God will take you to task for what your heart has amassed.' It is time for you to listen to God's message of kindness and compassion toward others.”

His words slowed time.

No one moved—until Ata locked his arms across his chest and rushed from the house.

Lali's whimpers filled the silence.

“Hold her, Ana,” Mehrigul ordered. “Can't you see that Lali needs us? Needs you.” She glared at Ana—and at her own wounded hands. “You must help,” she pleaded. “Hold Lali while I get a cloth to wipe her face.”

Lali had to go to school. She couldn't stay home today, no matter how she felt. Whatever was to happen with Ata wouldn't be good.

Ana had her arms around Lali by the time Mehrigul returned to hold a damp cloth against her forehead. Lali's body relaxed as Mehrigul wiped away her tears.

“It's time to go to the road. Are you ready?” Mehrigul said.

“I want to stay here.”

“Not today. There may be something very important to learn, and how can you teach me, if you don't know?”

Lali shook her head, but Mehrigul knew she'd go.

“Ana and I will both walk with you to the road. All right?” She studied both of them as she said this. Ana nodded, even if Lali did not. For whatever good Ana might do, Mehrigul wanted her there in case they came upon Ata when they went outside.

Chong Ata sat drinking tea. Mehrigul was certain his stand had taken a toll on him, but he seemed at peace. She went to him now. Knelt beside him. “Thank you, Chong Ata,” she said, biting her lips to hold back tears. She was no better than Lali. All she wanted to do was cry and sit there with her grandfather.

Chong Ata's hand gripped Mehrigul's arm. His strong fingers tightened and held her. Her pent-up hate and fear—and love—began to flow from her in quiet weeping.

“Come to my workroom when you return,” he said as he loosened his hold.

Surely Chong Ata understood that she could do no weaving today. Mehrigul had accepted that when she left her unfinished, bloodied basket in the grove. If Mrs. Chazen did come looking for her tomorrow, she'd dart among the carts and hide. Still, Chong Ata's defiance was giving her hands a chance to heal, and she was grateful.

 

Chong Ata was busy in the back of his room when she entered. Then he came to squat beside her with strips of bamboo in his hands. He handed her one strip. “Feel this, Mehrigul. It's supple and flexible. You may be able to work with it today.”

“Oh, Chong Ata.” The piece she held in her left hand was creamy yellow with a shiny surface. So smooth, so perfect. A long, narrow weaver half the width of her little finger, the exact same width from top to bottom. “Where did you get this?”

“When I could no longer go into the desert to collect tamarisk, I began to make willow baskets, as I still do today. But none have been as prized or as satisfying to me as those I used to make from tamarisk.”

Chong Ata shrugged as if casting off a memory and looked at the bamboo Mehrigul held in her hand. “My father was a master craftsman,” he said. “He taught me how to prepare and make baskets from all the bounty of our land.” Chong Ata paused and shrugged again. “I tried to make baskets from bamboo, since we had the grove nearby. I liked the process of preparing the bamboo; it kept me busy on long winter days when you and Memet were in school. I never made a basket worthy of keeping, none as masterful as his. And a woman working in a kitchen seems to prefer a simple willow basket.”

“I don't understand how this strip, something so perfect and flexible, can come from a bamboo culm,” Mehrigul said. “We cut grapevines and willow branches and use them just as they are.”

“Once the culms are dried, they must be leached by heating them over a fire many times. I would do that after your ana was through baking naan. Next I split the culm in half, then in half again and again until I get the width of the weaver I want to use. Then I strip it by shaving off the inner and outer surfaces until each piece is smooth and of even thickness.”

There was contentment on Chong Ata's face as he talked about preparing the bamboo. Mehrigul knew how it felt to trim a vine to make a weaver. Perhaps she herself was beginning to understand the joy and wonder of making things with her hands. Chong Ata had found his peace in his basket making. Would she ever find that peace?

Mehrigul held up the strip her grandfather had given her. “This is beautiful in itself, Chong Ata,” she said.

“It will not be as difficult to manage as grapevine or willow. Your hands may be able to weave a simple basket from this. The spirit and soul of the maker will give it beauty. Let me take your hands, Mehrigul.”

She laid the bamboo on her lap and held out her hands. No matter how dim his vision, Chong Ata would see the uselessness of her right hand—of both, really.

“It will be sore, but you must try to work.”

The bowl of special salve from the night before sat beside a stack of baskets. He applied it to her hands.

“I have the cotton with me,” Mehrigul said.

Chong Ata wrapped it carefully around her fingers and her palms, as if it were gloves.

“I've fixed a bag of bamboo strips for you. They've been soaking, but you'll need to have water nearby to keep them soft. Where will you feel safe to work? Of course, you may stay here with me if that's best.”

It wouldn't matter. She couldn't work anywhere. Didn't Chong Ata know that? But she couldn't disappoint him. She must at least try.

“I . . . I don't know,” she said, her eyes moistening with tears she had no will to hold back. “There's no place. I couldn't work anywhere near Ata.”

“I understand,” Chong Ata said. He rose, collected the bag he had ready for Mehrigul, and brought it to her. “Pati's family will welcome you. The miller and his wife have long been our friends. You may find peace at the stream beside the mill.”

Chong Ata knelt, again, beside Mehrigul. “Are you able to ride there?”

“Yes,” she said. And for a moment it almost seemed possible—that she might have a basket ready by tomorrow. “Thank you for believing I can do it.”

 

Minutes later, in the cleaner of her two pairs of pants and a warm shirt, the bag of bamboo swinging from the handlebars, Mehrigul rode away.

The words of the old proverb tormented her. The one Ata would not let her forget.
Do not follow your heart's feelings and desires. They will cleave you like an apple and throw you away in the desert.

Mehrigul's heart kept telling her that she would, somehow, keep making baskets. Maybe not today, but she could never give up. If Mrs. Chazen hadn't come, she might never have known she could do it. That she wanted to so very much.

No matter where the cadre sent her, she'd find something to weave. She'd keep her fingers nimble and busy with whatever piece of twine or cloth she could find. Or bark from a tree. Or grasses from beside a stream. If they sent her to a city that had a museum, maybe there would be baskets on display for her to see.

She pedaled faster toward the millstream, hoping the proverb held no truth for her.

M
EHRIGUL DRANK TEA WITH
Pati's mother and grandmother in the warm welcome of their home. They didn't ask about her bandaged hands but found a small bowl she could manage. Pati had told them about the baskets she'd made, and it pleased Mehrigul to learn how much her friend had admired them. Pati wasn't a good secret keeper, for she had made a promise to tell no one about them, but she was a loyal friend.

Pati's mother and grandmother were honored, they said, to have Mehrigul work by the millstream. They carried a felt rug to place over the rough stones that lined the bank, so that she would be comfortable.

It took a moment for Mehrigul to dismiss her guilt for even considering the possibility that Pati had stolen her baskets. The soothing sounds of water spilling from the mill brought calm. Trees grew along the banks of the stream, and she caught an autumn leaf gliding through the air in a lazy pattern. She let the contentment she had always felt here seep through her.

She'd think of nothing but weaving a plain basket, as she had so often done at Chong Ata's side. The beauty of the bamboo would make it special for Mrs. Chazen.

Removing strips from the bag, arranging them in the form of a cross, turning them so the shiny side would be on the outside—these things were done easily with her left hand. Lightly touching her thumb to the fingers of her right hand did not bring pain, but the swelling and stiffness were still there. She'd work slowly.

Mehrigul removed her shoes. Even the beautiful bamboo would be held with her bare feet.

She pulled another strip from the bag, this one to be the weaver. It was still pliant. It was time to begin.

The bandage did nothing to protect her raw sores. The force needed to work the weaver under the spokes sent unbearable pain through her whole hand. “No!” she cried. She'd never be able to do the tight weaving necessary to build the core.

Mehrigul sat back, nursing her hand, waiting for the throbbing to stop. She had to keep going. She must. The sides would be easier.

Steeling herself, she began to chant. “Under . . . over . . . under . . . over . . .” Even through her tears she could see blood seeping through the cloth. She grabbed the weaver with her left hand, putting it over, trying to force it under . . .

Mehrigul closed her eyes until the image of Chong Ata, squatting in the yard, was clear in her mind. Chong Ata with ten fingers flying in and out, not thinking which would lift, which would push. His two hands, together, building the core. Isn't that what she'd always done, without even thinking?