The Green Bicycle (20 page)

T
he sun set over the city in a blaze of red and orange. The air pollution in Riyadh made the colors brighter and more intense than the pictures of sunsets Wadjda saw on TV. Each cloud glowed brightly, as though a spotlight shone directly on it from behind. They looked like individual flames burning amid the vast long fire of the sky.

Wadjda and Abdullah were back in their by-now-usual spots on the roof. The night before, a sandstorm had howled through. The city was still thick with dust, and little drifts of sand covered the gray concrete surface. A strong overnight wind had brushed across the drifts, drawing out trailing streaks of golden-brown dust in intricate twisting patterns. Wadjda steered the bicycle in a lopsided circle around each sand drift, using them as obstacles on her course.

She pedaled more steadily now, but her movements were still awkward. It looked as if she could come crashing down at any minute. The dust made the bike's worn tires even slipperier and harder to balance on.

As Abdullah watched, Wadjda rode the edge of disaster,
always catching the bike and turning herself to a steadier position at the last possible moment.

“I think I'm done with my work now,” he said. He sounded sad, weighed down by the knowledge that their afternoon playdates would soon come to an end.

On the far side of the roof, Wadjda swooped perilously into a turn. Abdullah looked over the edge of the wall, watching the strings of lights sway in the warm breeze.

“My mother saw the lights, but forgot to ask me about them,” Wadjda called.

“She doesn't know?” Now Abdullah sounded panicked. “What about your father?”

Seeing him squirm made Wadjda smile. “I think they like your uncle. After he was on that radio program, I mean!”

She swung the handlebars hard to the left, jerking the bicycle around in the least graceful turn Abdullah had ever seen. He opened his mouth to coach her—

“Aiiyyyeee!!!!” The scream sounded from the other side of the roof, cutting shrilly through the peacefulness of the rose-gold evening. Wadjda and Abdullah snapped their necks around, startled.

To their horror and disbelief, Wadjda's mother stood at the entrance to the roof, mouth agape, still dressed in her work clothes. She looked as stunned as Wadjda and
Abdullah. Immediately, she spun, fumbling to put out the lit cigarette in her hand. At the same time, Wadjda swerved, tipped, and crashed to the roof with a
thud
. The pain from the fall twisted her face into a grimace, and she looked up pleadingly at her mother.

“I'm bleeding!” she moaned. “Look!”

Wincing, she held out her fingers, which were smeared with red stains from her injury. Her mother's face went pale, and she collapsed back against the wall, gripping the railing to steady herself.

“You stupid girl,” she shouted. “You think you can act like a boy?” She pressed her hand over her eyes. Then, thinking better of it, she parted her fingers slightly and peeked out between them. “Your honor! Oh my God, oh my God, what have you done? Where is the blood coming from? Where?”

“From my knee?” Wadjda wasn't sure what the big deal was, but her mother's hysteria was making it easier to calm down.
It didn't hurt that badly,
she thought, looking at the wide, shallow scrape on her right knee.

“What?” Her mother dropped her hand, sighing in relief. All the tension went out of her body as she slumped back against the wall. “Oh, thank God it's only your knee! I can't imagine what we'd do if the fall had harmed your virginity.”

But as her mother's fear dissipated, her anger returned. She marched over to Wadjda and grabbed her by the shoulder. “Bicycles are dangerous for girls,” she said, shaking a finger close to her daughter's face. “And you almost saw why! Can you imagine? Your life would be ruined, and—”

Cutting herself off, she turned and flashed a look of such fury at Abdullah that he snapped to attention like a young recruit being called out by a drill sergeant.

“And you!” she barked. “What were you thinking? I'll tell your uncle to teach you some manners. Get out of here!”

Abdullah ran left, then right, back to the left and almost to the wall before he realized the door was in the opposite direction. He looked like a panicked chicken, dashing about, unsure how to escape.

Sighing, Wadjda pointed subtly toward the stairway, hiding the gesture from her still-furious mother. Nodding, Abdullah grabbed his things and stumbled toward the exit. Before he reached it, though, Wadjda's mother pointed a trembling finger at the bicycle.

“And take that damn thing with you!” she called.

Spinning back around, Abdullah shoved his belongings under his left arm and lifted the bicycle onto his right shoulder. Turning, he ran toward the stairway, struggling to carry the bicycle alone. Even fitting it through the
doorway was a challenge. Its weight kept tipping him forward. To Wadjda, it looked like the bicycle might pull him down the stairwell, like an anchor dragging itself down to the bottom of the sea.

When Abdullah finally disappeared around the corner, Wadjda's mother turned back to her. Some of the anger had left her voice.

“Shame on you, bringing a boy upstairs with no one home. What would your father do if he knew?” Before Wadjda could say anything, she answered her own question. “He'd kill you!”

Wadjda looked away, rubbing her sore knee—the bleeding had almost stopped—and patting the dust off her clothes. “Why are you home early, anyway?” she muttered, hoping to move past the subject of the bicycle.

Bending down, her mother knelt and put her face right up to Wadjda's. They were at the same eye level. Her gaze was threatening.

“Listen to me,” she said. “Don't bring him up here ever again. I'm being serious now. Do you understand? I will tell his uncle, and he'll be in big trouble. If I weren't busy with your father's party, I'd have gotten really upset with you, too. We would have had a
long
talk about this.”

Wadjda nodded sullenly. Her mother sighed and looked away, staring out at the horizon. The whole city glowed,
the last blush of fading red sunlight sparkling amid the haze. It reflected off the endless windows on the buildings, thousands of tiny sunsets in miniature.

For a time, they were both silent. Then Wadjda's mother stood, shaking off the edges of her long black skirt to clean it of dust.

“Let's go downstairs,” she said. “We need to start cooking. Your father's friends are coming over tonight.”

She paused and fixed Wadjda with a meaningful look.

“You know how important that is,” she said.

T
he kitchen was alive with the sound of bubbling pots and sizzling pans. Clouds of steam and smoke—and wafts of delicious cooking smells—filled the air.

Working side by side, Wadjda helped prepare the massive plates of food her mother would serve to the group of men in the
majlis
. As they moved from one dish to the next, the sounds of loud conversation and male laughter echoed through the house.

Wadjda was panting a little—this was hotter work than carrying the bicycle up all those stairs! Blowing out her breath to ruffle her bangs, she used her shirtsleeve to dry the sweat beading on her brow.

Beside her, Mother was spooning rice into an enormous serving tray. A large lamb thigh, which she had cooked for several hours to ensure maximum tenderness, sat prominently in the middle of the dish.

Her mother's face was strained. Lines had appeared on either side of her mouth, and she kept staring worriedly at the food. How to relieve the tension? Wadjda had an idea.

“
Ya Laylah Dannah, La Danah
,” she sang coyly, hoping her mother would join in.

“Shh!” Mother snapped in an angry whisper. “Be quiet! Do you want them to hear you? Here, put this in the oven.”

She shoved a stack of pita bread into Wadjda's hands. Chastened, Wadjda stopped singing, lifted the low oven door with her foot, and shoved the bread onto the middle rack.

Do this, do that, not good enough!
It felt like her mother had been shouting at her for hours. The time that had passed since she and Abdullah got caught on the roof had been stressful. After the storm, the house was full of dust, so they had to clean everything, top to bottom. It was a regular ritual at this time of year. Their house was getting older. With no insulation on the doors or windows, dust permeated every seam. After a particularly fierce
huboob
, they would have to scoop sand out of the corners using buckets. It was almost like a snowstorm, but instead of melting, the grit gradually built up in every nook and cranny.

During the cleaning, her mother was extra careful with the
majlis
, where the men would sit. She burned more
oud,
disregarding the expense, determined to perfume the room. The scented smoke seemed to settle into the cracks and crevices they'd just cleared of dust. Before her mother
shut the door, hoping to better capture the smell, it sent Wadjda into a mild coughing fit.

Now, after hours in the kitchen, Mother lifted the large plate of rice and meat and walked to the
majlis
door. Setting the platter down gently on the floor, she straightened her hair and dress and knocked. Father opened the door just wide enough to slip his body out sideways, shutting it immediately behind him. In the brief moment it was open, Wadjda's mother hid herself from view, stepping to the left and out of sight.

As he lifted the serving dish and inhaled the enticing scents of aromatic rice and meat, Wadjda saw her father smile an enormous smile.

“Wow! All this food!” He kissed Mother's forehead and looked her in the eye, beaming. “They'll be impressed. You make me so proud.”

“Obviously not proud enough,” she said sadly. But her eyes were flirtatious.

As he closed the door behind him, Mother came back into the kitchen and started fixing the next dish,
Jarish
—chunks of meat covered with gooey sheets of wheat and topped with fragrant fried onions and spices. It smelled delicious.

In the
majlis
, Wadjda could hear the men talking about the stock market. Many of them had lost most of their
money through bad deals. This was common. When the market first took off, she remembered, half the people her family knew had invested their life savings. What they didn't know, and what was much discussed in the news these days, was that Saudi's rich and powerful classes were manipulating the stock market. When it eventually crashed, a lot of regular, hardworking people saw their dreams of fast cash disappear—along with everything else they owned.

Luckily, Wadjda thought, her father had never had enough money to buy stocks. What had seemed like a curse when she was small was now a blessing. His voice was calm, not nearly as agitated as the other guests in the discussion.

• • •

After the men had eaten their fill and ventured out into the night together, Wadjda and her mother went to get the dishes they'd left in the
majlis
. Everything was piled in a row along the long seating area on the floor.

Quickly tired of cleaning, Wadjda wandered about the room, enjoying the rare chance to explore and ask her mother questions. “What's this?” she said, lifting a large gold frame. It must have been a gift to her father, though she didn't know when he'd received it. The image inside resembled an enormous tree, but the branches were made
of lines. On each line, a name was written in flowing cursive. Wadjda ran her fingers experimentally along one limb, tracing out the shape as it forked along.

“Your father's glorious family tree,” Mother said cynically. She'd perched on the couch, and was nibbling bits of discarded food off the plates. “You won't find your name, though. It only lists the men.”

Though she spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, bitterness and anger lurked behind her words. Wadjda blinked, and set the family tree back down.

Across the room, her mother finished eating and rose, stacking the plates. When she moved a napkin aside, she discovered her husband's prayer beads beneath it. She picked them up and went to hang them on their customary hook by the front door.

Taking advantage of her absence, Wadjda pulled
Learn Quran the Easy Way
from its hiding place under the couch. In the process of cleaning, her mother had probably discovered she'd been using the TV. And after being caught with Abdullah and his bicycle on the roof, she was already in an impossibly deep hole. Might as well get everything out in the open, she thought, and began hooking the game up to the TV.

When her mother came back in and saw what Wadjda was doing, she frowned. But she didn't stop her.

“Make sure you clean that up when you're done,” was all she said. “I don't want to do anything that will get him upset with us again.”

Wadjda nodded in quiet understanding. But the game took a while to load, and she soon tired of lying on the floor, waiting. Tossing the controller aside, she wandered back to the family tree and read the names aloud, tracing her fingers across the leaves.

“Khalid, Mansour, Mohammed, Omar . . .”

When she came to her father, she stopped. His name stood alone on the end of a branch, isolated and cut off. All around it were his brother's names. Each sprouted many leaves, the names of boy after boy flowing out below them in a glorious cascade.

For a long while, Wadjda stared at the family tree. Then she reached over, tore a piece of blank paper from her notebook, and grabbed a small piece of tape from her bag. In large block letters, she wrote her name on the paper and stuck it under her father's, helping his corner of the tree to grow.