Read Online The Vine Basket by Josanne La Valley - Free Book Online Page B

Mehrigul, all the time nodding approval.
    Still she shivered, but this time from relief. “Thank you, Chong Ata,” she said. “I have another for you to see.”
    As she reached for the ribbed basket, her hands froze. Not that she’d heard anything. It was a feeling—not a sound. “I’ll be right back.” She sprang up, darted to the corner of the house. Her eyes searched the roadway. No donkey carts were in sight. She’d sensed her own fear.
    When her heart stopped pounding, she went back to Chong Ata’s side. “Please don’t tell Ata you’ve seen my baskets,” she said. “He thought the basket I sold was worthless and doesn’t want me to make more. He’d say they’re worth nothing more than to feed to a goat.”
    Chong Ata’s body curved into a ball of sadness.
    â€œIt may be hard for your father to see beauty in anything these days,” he said. “You must try to forgive him. We are all grieving from the shadow that has been cast over our lives.” He rocked his body back and forth, letting his head drop onto his chest.
    Mehrigul tightened her hold on the ribbed basket. Forgiveness of Ata was not something that came easily to her heart. If Chong Ata knew, if he’d caught Ata gambling, would he say to forgive him? Weren’t they all grieving from more shadows than she could think of?
    Air seemed to flow into Chong Ata’s body again. He looked up, gave a long sigh.
    â€œI believe you have another basket to show me,” he said.
    Mehrigul eased her grasp on the basket and placed it in his outstretched hands. She would not let this rare—maybe her last—private moment with Chong Ata be spoiled with thoughts of Ata.
    She watched as he again closed his eyes, explored her work with his hands. Chong Ata’s white mustache curved around a broad smile as he fingered the cornhusks interwoven with the vines.
    â€œFor many years now,” he said, “I have made only baskets for daily use.” His eyes open again, he held the basket close to his face. “You have made something that is uncommon.”
    â€œDo you think the American lady will like it?” Mehrigul moved closer to Chong Ata, examining the basket herself, trying to see it as if for the first time.
    â€œI believe she saw a particular quality in the basket she bought. Something she liked. And wished to have more.” Chong Ata lowered the basket, cradling it in his lap. “Baskets don’t have to all be alike. Cotton can be woven into plain cloth. If you change the pattern of the warp and the weft you get a different weave. If the threads are dyed you get different colors.”
    All of a sudden Chong Ata leaned his head back, shaking it, almost losing his big, black wooly hat. “Why, we cover the mud walls of our homes with bright, colorful cloth full of flowers and patterns,” he said. “That tells something about the nature of our Uyghur hearts.”
    Chong Ata picked up Mehrigul’s ribbed basket that still lay in his lap and held it out to her. “Our people should never lose the joy of making beautiful things with their hands—especially when so much else is being taken away from us.” He paused. Looked away, into the distance. “I know no reason at all why a basket has to be plain.”
    â€œThank you, Chong Ata,” Mehrigul said.
    He gathered the willow spokes that lay at his feet and began again to weave. “Your father wants some of my baskets to take on pilgrimage. I must not be idle.”
    â€œNor must I.” Mehrigul gathered her baskets. “I’ll store mine. I have a special place. I’ll be right back.”
    She slid cautiously around the corner of the house. The way was clear. She ran down the road toward the stand of bamboo, stirring up dust and dirt from the roadway and not caring.
    Â 
    If only Chong Ata is right,
she thought.
That someone might like a basket