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Authors: Josanne La Valley
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notice. âThe bicycle is by the grapevines. Iâll bring it home right away.â
âNo. Youâll bring it to me now, and you will walk home.â Ataâs voice was quiet. He stood with his hands on his waist, just looking at her. He raised his eyebrows, but not in angerâthat would be easy to recognize. If he thought theyâd lied to him, why wasnât he shouting?
Mehrigul felt Patiâs arm around her, hurrying her away toward their parked bicycles.
Eleven
M EHRIGUL TOOK ONE LAST look at the road before she passed the corner of the house that would obscure her view. She hadnât planned to show Chong Ata her baskets today, but for the first time in long memory she and her grandfather were alone. Anaâs headaches had gotten so bad that she couldnât leave her bed. Ata was driving her to the doctor in the cotton township. Ana had known the village healer since childhood. He was the only one sheâd allow to take her pulse and check for symptoms, to prepare herbs for her to brew into a tea. Ata insisted Ana see him before he left on pilgrimage.
Mehrigul took the risk that they might change their minds and return early. She wanted so badly to know if Chong Ata thought her baskets worthy of showing to the American lady.
âIâve brought two of my baskets for you to see, Chong Ata,â Mehrigul said. She squatted next to him in the yard where he was at work, surrounded by his willow branches. âI need to know if you like them.â
As Chong Ata reached forward to place his work on the ground, the front panel of his coat flapped open, revealing the sheepskin lining with its long, shaggy strands of wool. Was he already so cold he had to wear it? He would sleep inside when the winter winds came, join the family on the wooden sleeping platforms they shared in the room that was for cooking and eating, for living and sleeping. Still, they never had enough blankets to guard them from the cold that penetrated the cracks in their walls of poplar sticks and mud. They had no money to buy a proper stove with pipes leading under the sleeping platforms to heat them. Heat from pipes was a marvel she knew from visiting Pati. Patiâs beloved grandmother, her whole family had this comfort.
Shouldnât she be out collecting their winter store of fallen branches and twigs for the brazier rather than making baskets? Who would do that if she were sent away? The baskets in her arms grew heavy with her guilt. Her use of time to make them was a luxury. How many more days of absence from school would the cadre and his wife allow before Mehrigul was picked to fill their quota of factory workers?
They hadnât come after her yet. And if she made even more basketsâand was paid a hundred yuan each!âmaybe her family could even buy some coal. That would keep Chong Ata warmer than any twigs.
Chong Ata cleared his throat, his hands idle, waiting.
âIâm sorry,â Mehrigul said. âMaybe Iâm afraid to show you my baskets, for fear you wonât like them.â
Chong Ata said nothing. He closed his eyes and held out his hands. Mehrigul handed him her square basket. She watched as he traced the arches of the handles with his fingers. He held the basket between his hands, as if measuring the length of each side. He felt the bottom, tested the bindings. Then opened his cloudy eyes, squinting to bring an image into place.
A shiver ran through Mehrigulâs body. His expression told nothing. There was no scowl, no smile. He looked at the basket for the longest time.
âMehrigul.â He finally spoke, calling her not Granddaughter, as he always did, but by her name. Was this a sign of Chong Ataâs new respect for her?
âIâm proud that you have created a different kind of basket,â he said. âOne I have never seen before. I believe the lady at the market will like it. Itâs sturdy and well made.â He handed the basket back to
âNo. Youâll bring it to me now, and you will walk home.â Ataâs voice was quiet. He stood with his hands on his waist, just looking at her. He raised his eyebrows, but not in angerâthat would be easy to recognize. If he thought theyâd lied to him, why wasnât he shouting?
Mehrigul felt Patiâs arm around her, hurrying her away toward their parked bicycles.
Eleven
M EHRIGUL TOOK ONE LAST look at the road before she passed the corner of the house that would obscure her view. She hadnât planned to show Chong Ata her baskets today, but for the first time in long memory she and her grandfather were alone. Anaâs headaches had gotten so bad that she couldnât leave her bed. Ata was driving her to the doctor in the cotton township. Ana had known the village healer since childhood. He was the only one sheâd allow to take her pulse and check for symptoms, to prepare herbs for her to brew into a tea. Ata insisted Ana see him before he left on pilgrimage.
Mehrigul took the risk that they might change their minds and return early. She wanted so badly to know if Chong Ata thought her baskets worthy of showing to the American lady.
âIâve brought two of my baskets for you to see, Chong Ata,â Mehrigul said. She squatted next to him in the yard where he was at work, surrounded by his willow branches. âI need to know if you like them.â
As Chong Ata reached forward to place his work on the ground, the front panel of his coat flapped open, revealing the sheepskin lining with its long, shaggy strands of wool. Was he already so cold he had to wear it? He would sleep inside when the winter winds came, join the family on the wooden sleeping platforms they shared in the room that was for cooking and eating, for living and sleeping. Still, they never had enough blankets to guard them from the cold that penetrated the cracks in their walls of poplar sticks and mud. They had no money to buy a proper stove with pipes leading under the sleeping platforms to heat them. Heat from pipes was a marvel she knew from visiting Pati. Patiâs beloved grandmother, her whole family had this comfort.
Shouldnât she be out collecting their winter store of fallen branches and twigs for the brazier rather than making baskets? Who would do that if she were sent away? The baskets in her arms grew heavy with her guilt. Her use of time to make them was a luxury. How many more days of absence from school would the cadre and his wife allow before Mehrigul was picked to fill their quota of factory workers?
They hadnât come after her yet. And if she made even more basketsâand was paid a hundred yuan each!âmaybe her family could even buy some coal. That would keep Chong Ata warmer than any twigs.
Chong Ata cleared his throat, his hands idle, waiting.
âIâm sorry,â Mehrigul said. âMaybe Iâm afraid to show you my baskets, for fear you wonât like them.â
Chong Ata said nothing. He closed his eyes and held out his hands. Mehrigul handed him her square basket. She watched as he traced the arches of the handles with his fingers. He held the basket between his hands, as if measuring the length of each side. He felt the bottom, tested the bindings. Then opened his cloudy eyes, squinting to bring an image into place.
A shiver ran through Mehrigulâs body. His expression told nothing. There was no scowl, no smile. He looked at the basket for the longest time.
âMehrigul.â He finally spoke, calling her not Granddaughter, as he always did, but by her name. Was this a sign of Chong Ataâs new respect for her?
âIâm proud that you have created a different kind of basket,â he said. âOne I have never seen before. I believe the lady at the market will like it. Itâs sturdy and well made.â He handed the basket back to
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