The Vine Basket (6 page)

“Do you have to go now, Ata?” Mehrigul asked, making her voice as calm as possible. Whether he was off to gamble the money in his pocket or to meet with the men again, no good would come of it.

His answer was to walk away. “Remember to buy mutton for Ana,” Mehrigul called, hoping some reminder of home would keep him from trouble. Surely he knew the risk.

Her father flipped the back of his hand at her and hurried on.

When she could unclench her teeth, she grabbed a slice of squash and ate it. Wiped her mouth with her hand, wondering why she cared if he got caught.

It surprised her when several women came by for squash. Had Ata been true to his word? The women asked about Ana, and Mehrigul told only how busy she was—with Lali and all.

Another woman appeared. Mehrigul had noticed her lingering about the neighboring carts. Except for her white jacket and fancy scarf, she looked much like the other women, but Mehrigul knew who she was. She was the wife of the local party leader. A Uyghur, no more trusted than her husband.

When Mehrigul was free, the cadre's wife came over and examined the squash as if deciding whether or not to buy a piece. “Your teacher tells me you no longer go to school,” she said, still looking at the squash.

Mehrigul kept her head down, too. She couldn't let the woman see the hatred that seethed inside her.

“It's true, isn't it?” The woman moved closer.

“Yes . . . yes,” Mehrigul said, struggling for control.
Be calm. Think. Act like Hajinsa—not Ana.
She pulled in a deep breath and lifted her chin. “I'm helping my family for a while—during harvest. I have no intention of giving up my opportunity for an education or my chance to become more proficient in Mandarin. I know that is my key to a successful future.” Mehrigul shot her words straight into the face of the cadre's wife.

The woman did not back away. She narrowed her eyes. Looked intently at Mehrigul. Kept looking. Waiting.

A numbness crept inch by inch up Mehrigul's body as she strained to bring in more than tiny gasps of air. She must hold her gaze. She must!

Finally, the cadre's wife backed away. “We'll see, my dear,” she said. A lopsided grin crossed her face. “I'll keep track of you.” Her hands rested on her hips as she puffed herself up. “Remember, if you're not in school, it will be easy for me to arrange your papers so you can be sent down south to work in one of the big factories.” She shrugged. “We have our quota to fill, you know, and you'll be much more useful to your family if you go.”

She paused. The sickening grin left her face. “You're not going to run away like your brother did. Right?”

E
CHOES OF
M
EMET'S VOICE
swirled through Mehrigul's head as she watched the cadre's wife slip back into the bustle of the market.

Don't be taken in, Sister. Don't be taken in.
Be careful, Sister,
Memet had sung to her just before he left.

Mehrigul shivered at the memory. It had been the end of market day. She and Memet sat on the edge of the cart as they headed home. Not saying much, Memet calling out to the donkey now and then when he went too slow. They'd had a good day, but Memet was on edge, sliding off the cart, jumping on again. “If Ata makes a deal to send you far away to work in a Chinese factory, don't go,” he'd said suddenly. “He may try to make you do it. Some of his friends who need money are sending their daughters away. A few of the girls even want to go. But don't, Mehrigul. Just don't do it.”

“Why?” Mehrigul had asked.

He wouldn't answer. Wouldn't look at her.

Now he was gone.

Mehrigul had learned the meaning of Memet's warning by listening carefully to the whispered chatter of the women at market. She heard stories of girls who were sent south and never returned. The leaders didn't want their daughters here at home, the women said, where they'd marry Uyghur men and have Uyghur babies. They hoped the girls who were sent away might find Chinese men and marry them; there was a shortage of Han Chinese women. Mehrigul learned it was even worse for the girls who did return home. No Uyghur man would marry one; he couldn't be certain that a girl who'd been sent away was still a virgin.

Don't be taken in, Sister.

Memet had known and now she did, too. And anyone honest with himself knew that things would not change, the Han would never leave.

Mehrigul thought of the courage it had taken for Memet to take a stand against them. They'd tried to kill him, but they would punish her in a different manner. For no offense at all, she'd be sent away. Imprisoned thousands of miles from home. A slave in some factory, helping to make the Han Chinese rich.

Now she'd dared to dream. A dream she might never have had if the American lady had not seen her basket and liked it. Whether Mrs. Chazen came back or not, even if she had to leave her home for a while, Mehrigul would keep making baskets, her own kind of baskets. She knew a fancy basket was not something a farm woman needed, but somehow she'd reach out to a world beyond a journey in a donkey cart. If she got really good, she'd go to Hotan. Look for Abdul. Maybe he'd help her find a way to sell her baskets. He would know their value.

As Mehrigul stood staring at the place where the ca­dre's wife had been, another dream crept in. She saw Mrs. Chazen walking away. The three baskets she had carefully wrapped in soft white tissue hung in a bag from the American lady's arm. Three one-hundred-yuan notes lay in Mehrigul's outstretched hands. If she asked Ata for a tiny bit of it to pay her school fees—if he would let her go to school now and then—maybe she could stay home. For a while, anyway.

It was a good dream. The only useful one she had at the moment.

The image of Mrs. Chazen faded.

Mehrigul's hands were empty.

 

It was late when Ata came back. If he'd been drinking, it wasn't evident. His face was stern, his jaw set.

“Only a few baskets left. A good day,” he said as he passed Mehrigul on his way to retrieve their donkey. Had he looked at her rather than at the cart he might have stopped, sensed something wrong. Or maybe not; Mehrigul wasn't sure how she looked with her brain and body shut down beyond feeling. She couldn't remember moving since she'd watched the cadre's wife walk down the lane and disappear into the crowd.

Now Ata was here. She would not tell him about her visit from the party chief's wife. He'd go right to the cadre and sign whatever he had to, and she'd be on her way to a factory tomorrow.

Mehrigul watched in silence as Ata maneuvered the donkey to the front of the cart, lifted the shafts, tied them to each side of the donkey's collar, then attached the back support.

Automatically, Mehrigul reached to remove the poles that balanced the unhitched cart. She eased herself onto the back of the wagon. The cart tilted as Ata took his place, steering the donkey into the lane with flicks of his willow whip.

“The mutton?” Mehrigul said in little more than a whisper.

Ata reached into his pocket and thrust a wrapped package toward Mehrigul. “You give it to her.”

Mehrigul nodded and took the package.

She gathered the coins she'd collected. Presented them to Ata in her open palm, her head lowered. “Yuan. From this afternoon,” she said, trying to match the compliant tone her mother had mastered so well.

He took it. Counted it. “You didn't wander off and buy an egg, did you?”

Ata's words changed the numbness she felt to a smoldering fire. He was accusing her of wandering off. Had he been gambling, and was he wondering if she'd seen him? If she'd gone to spy on him?

Mehrigul took a deep breath before she trusted herself to answer. “No, Ata,” she said, “though I ate a piece of squash.” An edge crept into her voice and she was glad. “I wouldn't have left our cart in the care of the yarn vendor when we were doing such good business.”

Ata shrugged. He clicked his tongue at the donkey to make him go faster, and once again seemed interested only in heading home.

They rode in silence. Mehrigul tried to remove from her mind all but the yellow and gold leaves that fell from the poplars that lined the roadway. For a while, anyway, she'd be sweeping leaves into a bag to use as mulch for their fields and food for their donkey. She almost found comfort in that thought.

“You and your mother will be going to market next week. Alone,” Ata announced.

Mehrigul let his words hang in the air. She kept her eyes on her feet, which dangled from the back of the wagon, almost touching the ground.

“A man I know is going with the pilgrims to Cow Horn Mountain. I'm going with him to set up a market stall at the foot of the mountain.”

She brought her knees to the floor of the cart, turned to face her father. She knew that twice a year Muslim pilgrims from the surrounding countryside made the long trek to the mountain. They prayed at the graves of the Islamic leaders who long ago had won a battle against the Buddhists by smoking them out of their caves. Ata had never gone before. Why now?

Mehrigul stared hard at the back of Ata's head. Even she knew that trip could be dangerous. It wasn't only Uyghur spies who would be there; the Chinese police monitored pilgrimages. If her father got into trouble, they'd lose the farm, everything. Didn't he care anymore?

“You and your mother will have the donkey cart. I'm riding with someone,” he said, finally looking at her.

“Ana won't go to market,” Mehrigul said.

“She'll have to. You can't go by yourself, and the rest of the squash must be sold.”

“What about Lali?” Mehrigul jumped from the cart and walked beside Ata.

He eyed her with disgust. “Take her. It won't hurt her to miss a day of school.” He held up his hands, dismissing her. Probably upset he'd bothered to answer.

Mehrigul could think of no other arguments. And, in a way, it was a good thing: If Ata wasn't here, he wouldn't be able to sign papers. She almost smiled when she realized she'd be able to make even more baskets without having to sneak bits of time.

Home was within sight. “I'll run ahead. I can get there faster.” Mehrigul bolted, needing to feel the cold wind hit her face.

For the next two weeks she'd think only about making baskets.

T
HIS WAS THE SECOND
day Mehrigul had been sent to gather walnuts, foraging along the roadway for any that might have been overlooked and had not yet been carried away by rodents. She rode Memet's rusty old bicycle, stopping beside the walnut trees, combing through the fallen leaves.

Two baskets hung from the handlebars. One for Ana; walnuts were rich in nutrition and would help nourish them through the cold. They had always gathered as many as possible. That was their winter treat. The other for Ata, who would take half of what she collected to sell at Cow Horn Mountain.

Mehrigul was reluctant to fill Ata's basket, but that wasn't for her to decide. Ata was unhappy with the small amount she'd gathered the day before. With only two more days before he left, she knew she'd be sent to do even more scavenging, and it wasn't a job she liked. It brought back too many memories of the happy times she and Memet had when they were sent out together to do the gathering, Mehrigul riding on the back of Memet's bicycle. They'd raced to see who could find the most, the winner getting to hide three walnuts in a pocket to eat later.

There was too much aloneness in her life now, and it felt good to see Pati coming toward her on her bicycle as she rounded the last corner before returning home. Pati was waving her arm like a willow bough caught in a sandstorm —weaving across the road, trying to keep her balance. Mehrigul glided to a stop, parked her bicycle, and stood waiting, so pleased that her friend had come to see her and that they'd have a few minutes together.

“Hello!”
Pati called in English. She jumped from her bike, leaned it against Mehrigul's, and poured out a stream of words.
“How are you? Today is Saturday. I have come to see you. I am your teacher.”

Mehrigul burst out laughing. “
Hello,
Pati,” she answered in English, then switched to Uyghur. “I know that word and not one other of what you just said.”

Pati pulled a wrinkled sheet of paper from the school bag slung over her shoulder and fluttered it in front of Mehrigul. “I'm here to teach you English,” she said. “I have one hour.”

The sun was still high enough in the sky for Mehrigul to risk a longer absence, though she knew Ata would be growing impatient, more for the return of the bicycle than for her. He'd been riding off on it lately, at any time of day.

“We must move in behind the orchard so no one can see us,” Mehrigul said.

They wheeled the bicycles to a clearing near the grape arbor.

“When you see someone,” Pati said, “you say
Hello,
or
Hi.
Then you ask how they are.
How are you?
you say.”

“Hi. How are you?”
Mehrigul repeated in English.

“You can ask them how they are right now—that's
today.
Or the day before—that's
yesterday.
Or the day after—and that's
tomorrow.
Now, say after me:
How are you today?
”

“How are you today?”
Mehrigul said.

Names of the days and the months came next, then numbers from one to ten.

“Pati,” Mehrigul said, “this is good. But I'd love to know some special words.” She stood. Unthinking, she twined a narrow stem that hung from the grapevines around her finger, pulling it, testing it for strength and size.
You can test a vine,
she thought,
but how do you test a friend, to know if she can really keep a secret?
She'd trusted Memet. He'd been a good secret keeper. He might laugh when she said something silly, but he never told.