The Vine Basket (2 page)

Mehrigul was in the middle of rearranging the peaches yet again when she spotted a well-fed foreign lady wearing sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat. She had on tan pants and a black, long-sleeved shirt that showed off her gold jewelry. Two large bags and a camera dangled from her shoulders. Mehrigul couldn't see her eyes, but she liked the easy smile on her lips.

“I'm glad you're back,” the man who was with the lady said—in Uyghur, to Mehrigul's relief. “My name is Abdul, and this is Mrs. Chazen. Susan Chazen, from America.”

“Hello,” Mehrigul said, the English word she had practiced at school feeling strange in her mouth. “My name is Mehrigul.” The lady held out her hand, forcing Mehrigul to come out from behind the cart, no matter how unsightly she was. They shook hands and nodded.

The lady with him, Abdul explained, was from San Francisco in the United States. She owned a craft shop and was on a buying trip. She was interested in purchasing the vine basket and wondered if Mehrigul had more.

“No more,” Mehrigul told Abdul, “but it's only a basket made from grapevines.” Her eyes darted from the vine basket to her grandfather's prized willow baskets. “There are grapevines everywhere,” she said, amazed that anyone would want something so common. “I could make more, but are you certain she wouldn't rather have a willow basket?”

Abdul and Mrs. Chazen spoke together in rapid English that was far beyond Mehrigul's comprehension.

“It is your vine basket she wants,” Abdul told her, “and as many more as you can make in any shape or form that pleases you. She thinks your work is very skillful. Mrs. Chazen is traveling to Kashgar but will return in three weeks. Can you meet us here at that time with whatever you have made?”

Mehrigul could not stop her lips from trembling. She didn't know whether she was holding back laughter or tears. Could she do it again? Make something the lady wanted? She hung her head but nodded yes. Her grandfather would help her. He would know what she had to do. It would no longer be play, but work.

“Mrs. Chazen would like to pay you for the basket and wonders if she might have the sprig of cotton, too. What is your price, Mehrigul?” Abdul asked.

“One yuan?” she whispered, then instantly wished she'd said less.

Again, Abdul spoke to Mrs. Chazen in a blur of words.

A slight smile was on Mrs. Chazen's lips as she took off her sunglasses and studied Mehrigul, her eyes neither friendly nor mean.

With a sudden gesture, the lady held up her hand and waved it back and forth. That meant one hundred yuan!
She knows our signs,
Mehrigul thought.

Or not. She must have made a mistake.

Mehrigul held her breath as Mrs. Chazen dug into one of her bags, knowing it couldn't be true. Until a crisp, fresh one-hundred-yuan note was thrust into her hand. She'd never held a hundred-yuan note before.

Even as she fingered it, stared at it, it was unreal. She'd never wished for or even dreamed about something like this.

Abdul touched her arm. “Mrs. Chazen is very pleased you agreed to sell your basket,” he said, gently steering her toward the head of the cart. “I'll help you untie it.”

Together they removed the basket. Mrs. Chazen wrapped it in soft white paper and placed it in her bag.

“Goodbye, Mehrigul,” she said. “I'll be back.”

“Good . . . bye,” Mehrigul repeated, and watched them walk away. She was pleased that Mrs. Chazen's shoes were low-heeled, gray from a coat of dust. Not red, high-platform shoes, but the sensible shoes of someone who did not seem to care that Mehrigul looked like a peasant.

A
TA MADE SAD WORK
of hitching their old donkey to the cart, fumbling and cursing as he tried to fit the poles through the loops of the harness. Mehrigul didn't offer to help. She set about arranging sacks of unsold peaches and baskets on their small cart to separate her from her father as much as possible—his legs hanging over the front, Mehrigul on the back edge, away from the reek of his breath. He'd spent their money on more than gambling.

No words were spoken. No scolding about the unsold peaches. Certainly no mention of the missing grapevine basket. Finally, a slap of Ata's willow whip on the donkey's backside sent the cart plowing into the pathway toward the exit.

“Posh! Posh!”
Ata yelled, rudely making the other donkey carts and wagons give way. Mehrigul met the polite gestures of neighbors and friends with a tight smile as she retied her scarf under her chin. Surely Hajinsa would think that appropriate for the daughter of a drunken peasant full of wine.

The road between the poplars narrowed as they came nearer to their farm. The only sounds now were the crunch of their wheels turning in the dirt, the croaking of frogs along the irrigation ditch, the rattling
ka, ka, ka
of cuckoos. Mehrigul was soothed by the cacophony of familiar sounds; at the same time, her mind was in battle. She reached deep into her pocket and touched her one-hundred-yuan note to be sure it was still there. That it was real. With her whole being she wanted to keep it secret from her father. She couldn't bear the thought of its being wasted on gambling or wine. But she knew she had to tell him.

“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.

T
HE 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.