The Green Bicycle (6 page)

As Wadjda watched, the truck turned and
disappeared down the next street. Again, her feet moved her into action, without a moment's hesitation. She sprinted forward, breathless. When she caught up, the truck was parked in front of a run-down toy shop. It was a random store in the middle of a quiet strip mall on the outskirts of the neighborhood. Wadjda had never bought anything there, or even really noticed it.

Today, though, men unloaded many large boxes, carried inside bicycle after bicycle, each wrapped in protective plastic. Wadjda fought her way through the crowd of workers, craning her neck.
Where's the green one?
she thought, her heart in her throat. Search as she might, the beautiful bicycle was nowhere to be seen. It had disappeared.

An older man, dressed traditionally in a long white
thobe
and red-checked
ghutra
, made his way through the sea of items. Immediately, he caught Wadjda's attention.
There's something about him,
Wadjda thought. Maybe it was the fact that he was wearing a weird warm vest in the middle of summer?

But what she really noticed was how he looked relaxed, like he was taking things easy. A big smile filled his face and brightened his eyes. Now and then he joked with the workers as they unloaded the goods.

At last, the truck pulled away, and the interesting man disappeared back inside. Sneaking forward, Wadjda
pressed her nose to the hot glass. Through the thin layer of dust, she saw him lean over and pick up something heavy. When he emerged through the door again, Wadjda's heart lifted with joy. He was carrying the bicycle! He put it on display right in front. Its green crossbar shone in the hot sun, sparkling like a precious emerald. The gentle afternoon breeze lifted the bright ribbons on its handles. It was in a league all its own, standing out from the other toys and bikes like a shining beacon.

The man, who Wadjda decided must be the toy shop owner, looked admiringly at the bike. He brushed a hand across the smooth black leather of the seat, clearing it of dust. Smiling, he took a sign from his clipboard, wrote,
Only 800 Riyals!
and placed it on the handlebars. Then he went back inside the store and put an old record on an even older record player.

In all this time, he hardly seemed to notice the strange girl hovering outside his door, staring in awe at the bike.

The record crackled to life. Wadjda recognized the smooth, honeyed voice of Talal Maddah, one of the earliest Saudi singers, and her mother's favorite. His sweet song floated out of the shop, filling the street. Wadjda cocked her head to the side, intrigued. The fact that the shop owner was listening to this music made him even more interesting to Wadjda. Talal Maddah had famously—or
infamously—died of a heart attack while performing on one of the few live television shows allowed in Saudi Arabia. He died singing, in front of millions of his fans.

The next day, all the Imams in the country damned him. They said he would go straight to hell, where his soul would be forever tortured.

“Why were they so angry?” Wadjda had asked her mother one day when they were listening to his music.

“Talal Maddah sang songs about love between people.” Her mother twisted her lips sadly. “You know such music is
haram
.” This meant it was forbidden. “And percussion is okay, but other musical instruments? That's the worst!”

It was true. The Imams thought Talal Maddah's songs were bad and immoral. To the religious authorities, performing any type of music or art in public was a great sin, and in the end, one of the Kingdom's greatest artists died poor and cursed. But in this moment, as Wadjda stared at the bicycle, the painful longing of Talal Maddah's songs touched her heart. At last, she understood what he was singing about!

Slowly, so slowly, Wadjda ran her fingers across the bicycle's shiny chrome handles. Its wide seat gave it old-school charm. It was beautiful. It was sturdy. It looked incredibly
cool
.

It's also a girl's bike
, Wadjda realized. The dropped middle
bar between the handlebars and the seat—to accommodate skirts like the girls in her magazines wore—made that clear. Wadjda wrinkled her nose, confused. Why would the owner order a girl's bike? What kind of girl would ride a bicycle around the streets of Riyadh?

At the moment the question crossed Wadjda's mind, she saw it all, crystal clear. This was her bicycle. She was the girl who would ride it.

The sun's heat had gotten slightly more bearable as the great glowing orb dropped lower on the horizon. It was getting late. Wadjda had to hurry home if she wanted any time to herself. But it was so hard to leave. Her eyes shifted back to the sign, fixing themselves on the impossible price.

Again, the man emerged from the store. His eyes widened with surprise—he hadn't expected Wadjda to still be standing there. For a moment, he just looked at her. She looked back, confused and intrigued. He was so much less formal than the other shopkeepers, in his choice of dress and his taste in music. Still, he didn't look thrilled to see her. He nodded his head toward the sign, a quick motion, up and down.

“It costs eight hundred Riyals. Too expensive for you, I'd say.”

As he spoke, a hint of a smile danced on his lips, warming his face. Then it was gone. He looked stern again, and
weary, like he was tired of kids wandering around his shop all day and never buying anything.

I'll show you, old man!
Her wandering had a purpose. Expensive or not, the green bicycle would be hers. Wadjda tilted her chin up and set her jaw—no smiles for her, just determination. She looked at the bicycle. She looked at the shop owner. And she gave a nod of her own, a quick motion, up and down. Her eyes told him, “I'll buy it from you. Before you know it, I'll buy it!”

The owner's expression didn't change. Slowly, Wadjda turned and walked away. Behind her, Talal Maddah's serenade drifted down the lonely street. It filled Wadjda with thoughts of love and existence, of light in darkness—a million poetic things she hadn't understood until this moment, when she saw her green bicycle.

T
he way home took Wadjda past the massive houses in the fancy part of town. Each one was the size of a palace, a humongous structure with many floors. Fleets of shiny new cars were parked outside. Usually, Wadjda liked to imagine the many servants and workers running around in the mansions, taking care of the family.

But tonight, she was distracted. Her mind raced, and she walked with newfound purpose. All she could see was her green bicycle, hovering in the air before her, shining like a vision in the darkening sky.

Moving fast, she cut through the trash-strewn lots between the villas. This land had been left empty because of inheritance disputes. Sons argued bitterly about who their fathers had left the land to. Brothers clashed, fighting for years over the best locations. All this battling made even the nicest neighborhoods in Riyadh look like they'd been built next door to garbage dumps.

The rest of the street was covered in construction sites. Every day, it seemed, a new building went up. The city was expanding across the desert, filling in acre after acre that
had once been rolling sand dunes. Wadjda sped past one of the larger construction projects at the end of the block, which she thought was probably being built by a big shot like Abdullah's uncle.

As she ran, she counted and recounted the small wad of money she'd made at school that day. No matter how she did the sums, it was still only twenty-five Riyals. Wadjda checked the final amount one last time, in case she'd missed any smaller notes. She hadn't. Frustrated, she stuffed the cash back into her pocket. Then she took the black stone and hurled it across the field with all her strength.

She missed her target—a Coke bottle, way out of range. Wadjda gave a small, angry cry. She needed that bicycle! If she had a bike, she could keep up with Abdullah and the other boys. Finally,
they
would be jealous of
her
. They'd see the sun flash off her beautiful green bike as she pedaled by, getting farther and farther ahead and disappearing into the sunset, victorious.

Maybe she could make more bracelets to sell at school. It was a lot of work, but jewelry always brought in decent cash. She could make more mixtapes, too.

Ahead of her, a group of men dressed in everything from
shalwar kameezes
to jeans and flannel shirts were at work on a half-finished luxury villa. Like ants, they crawled about, driving nails into the boards of what would
someday be the top floor. As Wadjda stepped onto the field, they stopped what they were doing and turned toward her.

Awkwardly, Wadjda began to scuttle across the large open space, her arms wrapped around her body, her eyes on the ground. Lost in thoughts of her bicycle, she hadn't seen the men working above. Now she felt exposed to their watchful eyes—exposed, and completely alone. Cold sweat began to trickle down her back, and Wadjda felt her hands tremble with fear.

“Hey, nice throw! Why don't you come up and play with us? Let me touch those little apples!” one of the men called. The fellow next to him gave a menacing snicker.

Wadjda's heart sank, and she froze, trying to pretend she didn't hear. She imagined the auditorium poster, the one that called men human wolves. Maybe it was right. In that moment, she felt like a rabbit, hopping across an empty field. A pack of hungry beasts stalked behind her, snarling and hungry.

High above her head, the men laughed vulgarly. They were in a group now, lined up at the edge of the unfinished roof, staring down.

Wadjda's face burned with mixed emotions: shame, fear, embarrassment. She felt like she was doing something wrong. But why? On her long walks home, these sprawling lots and narrow streets were her whole world.
She knew the alleys and roads like she knew the lines on the palm of her hand. Yet, as the men's laughter fell on her head, it was like she'd stumbled off the path she knew. Like she was trespassing in a foreign land.

As she hurried to the spot where she'd last seen her rock, Abdullah appeared out of nowhere and picked it up. His eyes were fixed on the scaffolding above them, and he glared fiercely at the workers. The giant shell of the building loomed ominously. The silhouettes of the men—far bigger than Abdullah or Wadjda—dwarfed their tiny figures.

Maybe it was the tough-guy look on Abdullah's face, but when she saw him, Wadjda's whole body relaxed. She wanted to hug him and cry. Maybe they could throw rocks at the workers together. Not to hit them, but to scare them a bit, to keep them from shouting out such awful things.

Thank goodness you're here
, she almost blurted, but then she remembered how angry she was. Abdullah had ruined her veil and let Ms. Hussa humiliate her! She dashed over and snatched her stone from his hand. Then she picked up another, rougher rock and threw it back toward him as she stormed off in the other direction.

“Take that!” she shouted, aiming the stone well above his head. “And stop following me. I don't want to play with you anymore. At school, for not having a veil? The teachers made me stand out in the sun all day!”

Even on the last words, Wadjda was careful not to let her voice crack. Her friend dodged the poorly thrown rock and looked at her, ashamed. Wadjda kept her face cold. She put her stone in her pocket and turned toward home.

“Wait!” Abdullah shouted. He ran back to his bicycle and pulled a package off the rack on the back. Sheepishly, he held it out. His hand was shaking, just a little. “Here,” he said. “I got you this.”

Wadjda glared at him, suspicious. Eventually, though, she took the package. Ripping back the paper, she gasped as the wind caught and unfurled a new black veil. It was beautiful. A yellow flower made of beads decorated the corner.

For a moment, Abdullah and Wadjda watched the cloth dance in the breeze. Then Wadjda remembered how mad she was at him and stuffed it into her bag.

“This doesn't make us even, you know.” A smile tugged at her lips. “You know when we'll be even? When I race you on my new bicycle! Before you know it, I'll be beating you all over town.”

“What?” Abdullah scoffed, momentarily losing his apologetic tone. “Are you kidding, Wadjda? Girls can't have bikes!”

“Then I guess it'll be that much more embarrassing when I win!” Wadjda said, narrowing her eyes in challenge. Again, she began to walk away. Abdullah jumped on
his bike, ready to pedal off in the opposite direction, but at that moment a small pickup passed by. Its wheels rumbled across the empty lot, sending up a huge cloud of dust that completely engulfed him.

Looking back, seeing her friend coated in dirt and sand, Wadjda let out a long peal of laughter. Swiping at the dust on his face, Abdullah stuck out his tongue. He cursed and spat as he tasted the dirt. Wadjda laughed even harder.

At last, Abdullah smiled. They were friends again. The thought made Wadjda's heart lift. But it also made her more determined to get her green bike, race him, and win!

An annoyed-looking site manager popped out of the pickup truck and stormed toward the workers. He didn't notice Wadjda or Abdullah. Atop the looming building frame, the workers visibly tensed. In a big group, they scurried down to meet the contractor at the entrance to the site.

“All day, and you only built one pillar? Five men working for me! I pay five men, and I get one lousy pillar? You're robbing me blind.” The contractor's voice was harsh and mean. He slapped the closest man on the back of his neck, dragging him forward like a little boy caught cheating at school.

“Go to car. Go,” he said, switching to condescending, broken Arabic. “We finish work on other building.”

As she watched the cowed workers pile into the back of the pickup, Wadjda's heart sank. She felt bad for them, despite their taunts and stares. She wanted to tell them they should be nicer, that they were all stuck in this place together. That they shouldn't take their frustrations out on little girls, that there were real miracles in the universe and a purpose for everyone. That maybe she'd seen hers today, in the form of a green bicycle.

But she didn't. She just watched the truck pull away in a cloud of dust.