The Green Bicycle (3 page)

“She no late! You just came! I see you—five minutes not even!” She used the same broken Arabic for emphasis.

“I no talk to you, little girl. I talk to your mother. She is late!”

Without letting Wadjda or her mother reply, Iqbal got into the car and slammed the door. A picture of a smiling child in
shalwar kameez
, the traditional tunic and trousers worn in Pakistan, fell to the floor. Iqbal picked it up and cleaned it tenderly before putting it back on the dashboard. Time seemed to pause; he stared into the eyes of the little girl in the picture, looking as if his mind and heart were very far away.

Then he looked up and found himself back in Saudi Arabia, staring right into Wadjda's face, which was pressed up against the glass. Leaning back, Wadjda stuck her tongue out, just to make sure Iqbal knew who he was dealing with. He honked again, waving his hands at her with ever more exaggerated impatience.

“Don't worry about him,” her mother said from beneath her face covering. “Okay,
yalla
, bye!” She took her things from Wadjda, ruffling her daughter's hair as she stepped into the car. Wadjda heard her parting words faintly: “There's no problem, Iqbal. You take lots of money, so let's have some quiet for the long drive.”

The minivan bumped away in a cloud of dust and clanking of engine parts. As Wadjda was about to go back
into the house, she saw the minivan swerve wildly to avoid an oncoming car. In its recovery, it almost crashed into the garden wall of a nearby house. Wadjda flung her arms wide in dismay. What was Iqbal doing? Nervous, she watched the battered car disappear around the corner, the familiar fear that Iqbal would drive her mother straight off a cliff somewhere tickling its way into her mind.

In the living room, Wadjda rushed to grab her backpack. But catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she stopped and looked hard at her reflection. Slowly, she lifted her hair, wrapping it around her hand and piling it loosely on her head. Could she ever look as effortlessly elegant as her mother? If Wadjda pinned her curls and tilted her chin slightly to the left, catching just the right light, could she be as beautiful?

Sunbeams flickered across her face and reflected off the glass. Sighing, Wadjda put on her
abayah
, turning away from the girl in the mirror.

• • •

Outside, bright sunlight beat down on the rows of concrete houses lining the streets. A tall wall fronted each home, and a thick layer of dust coated everything: the trees, the trash heaped in the gutters, even the cracked gray sidewalks. In Wadjda's neighborhood, it was difficult to tell one thing from another. Beneath its blanket of dust,
the street seemed boring and lifeless, a giant beige blur stretching endlessly into the distance. Aluminum foil or tightly drawn curtains covered the windows, offering the people inside protection from the sun—and from the curious eyes of the outside world.

Here and there, groups of girls walked to school, their bodies completely covered with black
abayahs
and veils. Only different backpacks or eyeglasses distinguished one from another. Taxis and minivans passed by with a roar, leaving dust clouds hanging in the air behind them. Women were not allowed to drive in Saudi, so each car was packed with female passengers, all pressed tightly together, all dressed in black. Clusters of foreign-looking men, mostly Indian and Pakistani, moved toward their places of work. They had on worn, faded clothes, most of which looked as if they'd been beaten with a dusty broom in place of cleaning. The women instinctively kept their distance from the men, moving to the other side of the street or waiting for them to pass so they could avoid any accidental contact.

She couldn't wait any longer. With a sigh, Wadjda turned toward school—and flinched, her body jerking back as,
crash!
A rock skipped past her, knocking against a discarded soda can and sending it clanking away across the sidewalk.

Startled, Wadjda looked up to see her father, smiling and tossing another rock up into the air. Her heart swelled. From the accuracy of the throw, she'd known it was him even before she turned around. Her father was always showing her how to skip stones, and there were endless targets on Riyadh's trash-ridden streets. Discarded cans and fast-food wrappers seemed to fill the sidewalks as soon as the street sweepers passed through, the new garbage easily taking the place of whatever trash had been removed.

Wadjda's father ran his hand through his short black hair and drew his fingers across his neat mustache. Wadjda could almost feel its soft tickle against her cheek. She liked how his uniform from the oil rig had faded, turning a cool, sun-bleached gray. When he'd left home, it had been bright blue and ugly. It looked much tougher after a little wear and tear.
Like my sneakers
, she thought.

“Watch this!” her father called, and flung a rock toward a jumbo-sized fast-food cup, which someone had left on the wall behind Wadjda. Even as she ducked, Wadjda saw the cup fly from its place, lid and straw exploding in opposite directions. Impressed, she grabbed a stone from the dusty road, hefting it in her palm, feeling its weight.

“Oh yeah? Check this out!” She searched for her target, chest puffed out bravely, and zeroed in on a dusty milk
carton lying a few meters away. Though she gave it her best shot, the rock fell short. In silence, Wadjda and her father watched it tumble to a stop near her father's foot.

“Close, my girl! Keep practicing. You're getting there.”

Wadjda couldn't wait any longer. She ran over and hugged him. “Where have you been,
Abooie
?” she blurted, wrapping her arms around his chest and squeezing tight.

Her father didn't answer. He just held her out in front of him, smiling. “Look at this,” he said at last, pulling a shiny black rock from his pocket. “It's volcanic, from the Empty Quarter. It'll fly straight and fast—think how that will help your aim! Now, you have school, yes? Better get going.”

Wadjda took the rock from his hand, beaming. He patted her on the head. They stood side by side for a moment as Wadjda rolled the glossy stone in her hand. She didn't want to leave, not yet. She wondered about her father's lonely life on the rigs, out in the middle of nowhere. In her mind's eye she saw him pacing the Empty Quarter, imagined a glint of light on a stone catching his eye. She thought about him picking up the shiny black rock, holding it in his hand, and thinking of her. His daughter.

With a surge of glee, she tossed her new prize up high once, then again. On the third throw, she snatched it from the air and started off toward school, running fast, her shoes slapping exuberantly against the sidewalk.

“We left the door unlocked.
Ummi
's been waiting for you all week!” she called over her shoulder.

Her father's eyes flickered at the mention of her mother. Once more, he passed his hand over his hair. Then he patted the dust off his overalls and moved toward the front gate of the house.

I
look cool
, Abdullah thought.
Cool and grown-up
.

He was working on one of the large campaign billboards his uncle Abdulhakeem bin Hamad bin Musaid Al Toofi had asked him to set up around town. The task wasn't hugely important, but any assignment from his uncle made Abdullah swell with pride. It was a big deal to be trusted and given the honor of helping out on his uncle's election campaign. It was the beginning of his training, the first step in a long journey that would take him all the way to the top of his tribe's distinguished elite.

Abdullah's family was an important one, and he knew he would grow up to be a leader in their remote community. In a village as small as theirs, bloodlines and connections were the surest way to reach the top. His uncle was loved by all, and for much more than his family name or tribal affiliation. His enthusiasm for life, and his deep knowledge of the traditional ways of the desert, had earned him respect. He was the ultimate Saudi tribal man—more at home at his legendary camping parties in
the desert, hunting wild rabbits through the dunes and smoking
shisha
, than he was in an office or the city.

But for all his skills, there was nothing his uncle was prouder of than his big, bushy mustache. It best represented his strength and power, and on the billboard it easily spanned three feet. Abdullah stepped back, grinning. He'd seen firsthand how much work went into maintaining such facial hair. Uncle splashed on all sorts of products to keep his mustache thick and lush, and he carefully dyed it black before the white roots could grow out and expose his true age to the world.

Sweat trickled down Abdullah's forehead. He swiped at it with the back of his hand, wondering idly why his contented uncle had decided to run for political office. Maybe he was trying to act more dignified. But deep down, though, Abdullah knew he would always be an unruly, free-spirited man. The people of his tribe—and his nephew!—wouldn't want him any other way.

Stories of his uncle were legendary in their village. When Abdullah's oldest sister had gotten engaged, his uncle had ordered twenty trays of
Muffatah
, enough to feed the whole neighborhood. Every tray held a grilled lamb, laid out from head to hoof atop an enormous bed of tender basmati rice, dripping with roasted onions, raisins, and pine nuts. That epic meal was still talked about
by everyone in their suburb. Abdullah remembered taking a large plate for Wadjda and her mother, too. He'd chosen a good piece of meat for her, carefully selecting the most tender piece of thigh.

At the thought of Wadjda, Abdullah swiped again at the sweat on his brow and straightened his white, tightly woven hat—his
taqia
. To make it look just right, he ironed it himself before Morning Prayer. He'd done a good job today. The
taqia
sat firmly on his head. Feeling more confident, Abdullah dropped the screwdriver into the pocket of his pristine white
thobe
and theatrically pulled out a larger one, giving it a playful spin with his fingers. That'd show Wadjda, he thought—though to be honest, he couldn't remember a time when he'd actually impressed her. Not when he taught her to knock down a can with a rock from all the way across an empty field. Not even when he showed her how to whistle. He knew she appreciated these things. The flash of her mischievous smile, and the sweet grudging dip of her head, told him so. But she was too proud to say the words aloud.

She'd smile now if she could see the billboard. Why, it was as tall as him! Its two sides came together in a point, like a giant letter
A
, held together by folding hinges in the middle. The board had been placed strategically at one of the busiest intersections in town, across from the largest
supermarket. The roads here met at the midpoint between the boys' and girls' schools, which were on opposite sides of the neighborhood.

Abdullah had actually finished putting the board up ten minutes ago, but he kept fiddling, tightening already tightened screws, pretending there was more work to be done. Occasionally, he glanced at a group of drivers who stood nearby, drinking tea, wondering if the poster had caught their attention. No one seemed to notice.

The poster had already begun to accumulate dust, the tiny grains blown in by the low wind that blanketed Riyadh in a constant layer of sand. It blanketed Abdullah's bicycle, too, which leaned against one side of the billboard. His books were clamped to a rack on the back, and Abdullah shuddered, thinking of the hours of boring lessons ahead.

Still no sign of Wadjda. Nearby was the convenience store where she bought junk food and candy to resell to her classmates at double the price. Abdullah checked his watch, tracking passersby as they moved along the street, their forms appearing and disappearing in the hazy air. Where was she?

At last a familiar shape in the store caught his eye. A jolt of happiness shot through Abdullah. Though he wanted to wave, he didn't. He had to look cool.

Inside, Wadjda stood in the candy aisle, considering the different varieties of chocolate. She looked up and smiled when she saw him. Instantly, Abdullah disappeared back behind the billboard. He patted at his pockets, looking for another tool, knowing he needed to busy himself with a task before Wadjda came out of the shop. He tried to steady his features, but despite his best efforts, his face kept breaking out in a smile.

He surveyed the portrait of his uncle once more. Uncle was a big man, a bit overweight, but that was as it should be for such an important person. In the picture, he sat upon a chair that looked like a throne. Beneath him was inscribed, “Vote for me for Municipal Council. Your glorious representation.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Abdullah saw Wadjda approach, munching on a breakfast sandwich. He brushed his hair into place, pulled back his shoulders, and stood taller. Wadjda didn't seem to notice. She read over the poster and laughed.

“What's this, an ad for mustache products?”

Abdullah almost laughed, too. But he hid his smile from Wadjda, and when he turned to face her, his look was cool and annoyed.

“Very funny, you. That's a mustache so strong a falcon could perch on it!”

“A falcon? An airplane could land on that thing!” Wadjda chuckled.

Abdullah smiled and opened his mouth to reply. Then, over her shoulder, he saw a group of boys approaching. If they saw him talking to Wadjda in public, he'd spend the rest of the day—maybe the rest of the week—paying for it. They'd tease him mercilessly for wasting his time with a girl. He looked around, searching for a way out. Then, in a move so fast it was almost instinctive, he snatched the sandwich from Wadjda's hands.

“Thanks for buying me breakfast!” he called, sprinting off in the opposite direction from the group of boys.

“You jerk! If you want to race, you don't have to steal my sandwich!” Wadjda screamed, and took off after him.

They flew through the neighborhood, jumping to avoid large cracks in the asphalt, dodging around random palm trees growing up through the sidewalk, leaping over the dusty garbage and debris lining the curbs. Cars honked in the morning madness of rush hour. Foreign workers on bicycles glided out of their way, dipping in and out of the stalled traffic like silvery fish making their way upstream.

Wadjda was gaining quickly on Abdullah. From experience, she knew she was faster. It was only a matter of time before she caught him.

But as she rounded a corner, a gust of wind caught her
veil and it slipped back on her head, exposing a few inches of hair. For two or three precious seconds, Wadjda felt the cool breeze moving across her face and drying her sticky forehead. Then, without a thought or a missed step, she reached up and pulled the veil back into place, tightening it around her neck, making sure all her hair was out of sight.

Brow furrowed, she picked up speed and started to really close in on Abdullah. She leaped over a mangy cat like a hurdler. Her churning feet kicked up a huge cloud of dust and sand as at last she overtook him, snatching the sandwich from his hand, shouting out a final cry of victory. Slowing her run to a trot, she looked back, pumping her arms in show-offy celebration.

This went on for another minute. Then, exhausted, Wadjda and Abdullah stopped running and stood opposite each other, panting. Sweat beads sprung up again on their brows. The already oppressive desert heat engulfed them. They exchanged a glance. Safely away from the other boys, Abdullah smiled at Wadjda.

But before she could smile back, he took off, sprinting toward the convenience store where he had left his bicycle.