The Green Bicycle

by Haifaa Al Mansour

  Before she could think better of it, Wadjda slapped the folder shut, dragged herself to Ms. Jamila’s desk, and dropped the folder into her in-box.

  If I win, I’m doing it my way, she thought, and walked away without looking back.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  “Allahu Akbar Allahu Akbar!”

  The haunting lilt of the dawn adthan, or call to prayer, echoed through the streets and into Wadjda’s dark bedroom. “Al Salatu Khairun Min Al Naum,” the muezzin called, which meant, “Prayer is better than sleeping.” It was a line unique to the dawn call.

  Wadjda’s mother was already awake, sitting on the side of her daughter’s bed. She reached over and touched Wadjda’s shoulder tenderly.

  “Wake up, little troublemaker,” she whispered.

  Wadjda lifted her head, rubbing her eyes. It had taken her a long time to fall asleep the previous night. Too many thoughts and feelings were stampeding through her head, sending her emotions into a churning mess.

  Her mother ran her hands through Wadjda’s hair, working the tangles free. Still Wadjda lay silently, staring at the bottle of blue nail polish. It sat on the desk, right next to her money-saving chart. It reminded her of the tiny rebellions she’d relished with her old friends, with Fatin and Fatima, even with Abeer.

  “Ummi,” she said. “Do you think Abeer is okay?”

  Her voice trailed off as her eyes sought her mother’s.

  “After what happened?” The last words were a whisper.

  Her mother smiled.

  “Of course, darling. Abeer’s engagement was the best day of her life. She’s a very lucky girl. She couldn’t be happier not having to go to school anymore!”

  Wadjda bit her lip, uncertain. The bottle of nail polish kept drawing her eyes. It seemed in that moment like a tiny blue finger, pointing at her, accusing her of—

  The call rang out again, and Wadjda turned her head away.

  • • •

  In the bathroom, Wadjda’s mother used the faucet in the shower to perform wudu, the required washing before prayer. The showerhead was detachable, and connected to the pipes by a long length of metallic hose. This made it easy to wash her arms and feet without having to get too far into the shower.

  Behind her, Wadjda leaned over the sink. She sniffled up water to clean out her nose, cupped water in her hands to splash her face, and industriously rubbed water behind her ears. There was a lot about wudu on the Quran radio station.

  “I saw girls riding bicycles on TV, Ummi,” she said, bending to dab water on her feet. “Why don’t you give me the money to buy one? I know you can. I saw all the money in your drawer!”

  “Here, girls don’t ride bicycles,” her mother said. She turned the showerhead, spraying her feet, and stepped out of the stall onto the tiled floor. “You won’t be able to have children if you ride a bicycle!”

  Another ridiculous answer! Every time Wadjda brought up the bicycle, her mother seemed to have a new silly reason to say no. This time, though, Wadjda had a retort. In the midst of her frustration, she blurted without thinking, “You’ve never ridden a bicycle, and you still can’t have any more children!”

  The words fell into the room like a cupboard’s worth of crystal goblets smashing on the floor. Her mother dropped her towel. Deep anguish filled her face, a darkness that shadowed her eyes and turned down the corners of her mouth.

  Wadjda went white. Only now did she realize the significance of her words. Now, when it was too late to take them back.

  “How could you say such a thing?” Her mother’s voice broke. “I almost died having you!”

  Snatching up the towel, she threw it on the rack and stormed out, slamming the door behind her. Crushed, hating herself for hurting her mother, Wadjda dropped her head onto her crossed elbows. In the bathroom mirror, she watched drops of water run down her reflected face and drip off her nose into the sink. From this angle, they looked like tears.

  By the time Wadjda came out to join her in prayer, her mother was already wrapped in a bright red covering. The beautiful cloth flowed down her body and onto the floor. Tucking her own covering under her chin, Wadjda stood tentatively next to her mother. Without speaking, they pulled two prayer rugs out of a small, beautifully decorated wooden box.

  Wadjda’s mother twisted her lips. The box had been a wedding gift from Wadjda’s grandmother, brought specially from the holy city of Mecca. Wadjda knew her mother was trying to sell it, which was a sore point between her and her mother-in-law.

  “If we need money,” her mother would say, “what can I do?”

  They laid their prayer rugs out, side by side, and lined up to pray. Again, Wadjda positioned herself as close as possible to her mother. She heard the steady drip, drip, drip of water from the bathroom faucet. The sound blended with the voice of the imam, echoing from the loudspeakers of the nearby mosque.

  “Qad qamat al-salah,” the voice called out. Mother shifted her weight and raised her hands up near her ears. Wadjda looked down at the floor, instinctually following her movements.

  “Allahu Akbar,” her mother whispered. Wadjda moved her lips silently, reciting the prayer along with her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Hands full of supplies, Wadjda’s mother rushed out the front gate of their house, followed closely by Wadjda, who was also loaded down with stacks of schoolbooks and papers. Her mother was fully veiled, shrouded in black. Only her eyes were visible.

  Despite her tremendous hurry, she came to an abrupt stop when she looked up and saw the string of lights attached to the roof. “What—” she whispered, and looked accusingly at Wadjda, who blushed. Caught red-handed!

  Luckily, Iqbal was waiting. He gave a long blaring blast of the horn and poked his head out the window. But when he saw Wadjda, he pulled his head back inside again. Thankfully, her mother didn’t notice. Muttering under her breath, she pulled open the van’s sliding door and threw her things onto the seat. Turning, she snatched the unwieldy stack of papers from Wadjda’s arms.

  “We’ll talk about that later,” she said, gesturing toward the lights. Wadjda looked away sheepishly as her mother climbed into the van and slammed the door shut.

  Iqbal lurched the car forward, casting up a sooty cloud of exhaust. He shot Wadjda another glare through the passenger-side window as he drove by.

  This I can handle! Laughing, she placed her pointer finger across the bottom of her nose, like a mustache, to remind him of Abdullah’s threat. Mouthing curses at her through the dirty glass, Iqbal pushed the car to a higher gear. The van jolted away down the street, a little moving tornado of dust and gray smoke.

  • • •

  Wadjda’s day at school was a blur of forgettable, boring, unremarkable nothingness. Before she knew it Wadjda was dragging herself back through the front door, dropping her bag in the hallway, and wandering mindlessly into her mother’s room. Now that she wasn’t selling things, she had more time after school. The long afternoons left her feeling restless. And she kept thinking about the Jamaaea.

  Sighing, she opened the drawers of her mother’s dresser, one by one, inhaling the familiar sweet and spicy scent. Finally, she opened the top drawer and moved aside a layer of clothes. There it was. Revealed, the wad of money seemed even bigger. Wadjda’s eyes widened as she stared down at it. Gingerly, she pulled out the stack of notes, barely held together by a straining rubber band, and flipped through it, counting each bill silently. For a while, she held the cash in her hand, feeling its weight. To think of all the things those Riyals could buy!

  Her eyes wandered to her mother’s almost-empty closet, and the corners of her mouth turned down in a frown. With a sense of finality, she put the massive stack of bills back. She carefully folded the clothes over it, closed the drawer, and left the room.

  In the living room, restlessness tugged at her heart. She’d been so good lately! Not lookin
g at the competition questions. Not taking the money. Surely she’d earned some sort of license for mischief! Like using her father’s brand-new TV. A smile lit Wadjda’s face at the thought. She knew she wouldn’t break anything, so it was more or less a victimless crime. Besides, it was for studying! Practically a noble thing to do.

  On swift feet she flew to the kitchen, opened a small box hidden underneath the cabinets next to the oven, and pulled out a ring holding the different house keys. Without hesitation, she walked to the majlis door and started testing them. One after another, she jammed the keys into the lock and gave a twist, hoping for the right fit.

  The keys clanked and jangled. Just when she thought she’d gone through them all twice, she felt one slip into place. The lock clicked open. Yes! Wadjda pumped her fist in the air, grinning. From there, it was a matter of seconds. She brought in her game system and hooked it up to father’s brand-new TV.

  The picture was enormous, crisp, and clean. When the game’s cheesy graphics scrolled across the screen, they looked old-fashioned and fuzzy. The TV was so nice that it made the cheap animation look like junk. Still, it was way better than the living room.

  “Choose the correct answer,” the game commanded. The first question popped up. “Who are the Sabians?”

  “The what?” Wadjda said aloud. Randomly, she hit a button. It was a complete guess. She had no idea who or what the Sabians were.

  “Incorrect!” the game said. Its tone was robotic, but somehow angry. “Try again. Who are the Sabians?”

  “Okay, mister. I’ll show you. Except, um . . .” She still had no idea who the Sabians were. Desperate, Wadjda scanned the multiple-choice answers on the screen and hit another button.

  “Incorrect! Try again,” the game said in the same mean robot voice. “Who are the Sabians?”

  Frustrated, Wadjda threw the controller on the floor, where it bounced against the carpet.

  “How am I supposed to know?” she screamed defensively at the TV.

  At that moment, the doorbell rang. Relieved to have an excuse—any excuse!—to abandon the game, Wadjda sprinted over to see who it was.

  But if I’m going to win, she told herself, I have to figure out who the heck the Sabians are—and fast!

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The sound of panting filled the stairwell. Both Wadjda and Abdullah were breathing heavily as they heaved his bicycle up toward the roof. Abdullah was a welcome distraction to the long, languishing afternoon. Well, at least his bicycle was. The Sabians could wait.

  “I don’t care if they memorize everything,” Wadjda said, forcing the words out between puffs of breath. “I’ll be better! I’ll beat them all!” She paused, letting the bicycle rest against the wall. Her voice grew stronger. “Seriously, I’m getting good!”

  Not wanting to argue, and unsure what exactly Wadjda was talking about, Abdullah nodded his silent approval. Today, he was having a harder time with the stairs. It was his boots. They were too heavy. He dragged his feet as he pushed himself and the bicycle upward, its wheels bumping forward one step at a time.

  At last, they lowered the bike onto the cement surface of the roof. Still panting, Abdullah went to work on the lights. Wadjda leaned over, struggling to catch her breath—and blinked, surprised. The bicycle was standing on its own!

  Suspicious, she paced a tight circle around it. Training wheels had been bolted onto the back tire! Her eyes filled with fury. Whirling, she shot Abdullah a look of death.

  “What is this?” She gave one little wheel a kick.

  “It will help you learn,” Abdullah said defensively. “Look, I need to work on the lights. I can’t be pushing you around all day.”

  Wadjda marched over to where he was working and planted her hands on her hips, glaring down at him.

  “So I can’t recite, and I can’t ride, is that right? I hate you! And, and . . .” But the words wouldn’t come. Nearly paralyzed with anger, she kicked Abdullah’s toolbox away. Hammers and screwdrivers clattered out onto the roof, and Wadjda collapsed onto the concrete, head buried in her arms, crying.

  Abdullah looked at the scattered tools and sighed. Without saying a word, he grabbed a wrench. Still in silence, he walked over to the bicycle and cranked the bolts off the training wheels. First one, then the other. When he was finished, he walked over and dropped them on the ground beside Wadjda. First one, then the other. Clunk, clunk.

  Finished, he sat beside her and stared off across the city. It was smoggy today. The farthest buildings were invisible, and even the nearby ones were made fuzzy and indistinct by haze.

  “I took them off,” he said softly. “You’ll learn how to ride, and you’ll read well, too. It’s only a matter of time.”

  Wadjda didn’t move. Her shoulders shook with silent sobs. Desperate, Abdullah reached into his pocket and fumbled around, pulling out a few crumpled bills.

  “I’ll give you five Riyals if you stop crying.”

  He held the money out in her direction. Keeping one hand over her eyes, Wadjda reached out and snatched it. She put it in her pocket, raised her head, and wiped her nose.

  Across the roof, the new ribbons on Abdullah’s handlebars swayed in the breeze. For a moment, Wadjda watched them lift and dance. Then she turned back to Abdullah and smiled.

  The two of them sat next to each other on the old concrete roof, not speaking, enjoying the silence. The sunset adthan started, calling for prayer, signaling the end of their day. For the moment, they smiled at each other, content.

  But still, Wadjda knew, there was work to do.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Iqbal’s battered car jolted into potholes and juddered over speed bumps, making its shaky way forward through the neighborhood. In the back, Wadjda and her mother sat, neither one speaking. Every so often, Wadjda’s mother adjusted her niqab, pulling the veil tight around her head. But every new vibration and bump shook the fabric off again.

  They stopped at a traffic light across from the toy shop, and Wadjda leaned over to see if she could spot her green bicycle. It should be there, waiting for her.

  Instead, to her shock, she saw the shopkeeper talking to a man and his son. They were standing by her bicycle, staring right at it! Now the owner reached out, put his hand on the crossbar, and gestured to the seat. Though Wadjda couldn’t hear what they were saying, a feeling in her gut told her they were bargaining.

  No, no, no! Wadjda pressed her face against the dirty window, squinting, trying to get a better look. At that moment, the owner raised his head and spotted her, saw her wide eyes staring longingly through the glass. Wadjda saw his own eyes widen in recognition. But then he looked away, smiled, and kept talking to the potential buyer.

  The man and his son wore crisp, shiny thobes. They must have a lot of money, Wadjda thought, to afford that kind of fabric. The man’s white ghutra and neat black iqal resembled the ones her father kept for special occasions. The bike’s eight-hundred-Riyal price tag was probably no big deal to them.

  Iqbal shifted into gear, and the car rattled off down the street. For a desperate moment, Wadjda considered opening the door and jumping out, but good sense prevailed, and instead she squirmed uncomfortably in her seat. She wanted to chase away the man and his annoying son, to yell at the owner for even showing her bicycle to anyone else! Confused, her mother glanced over at her, and then peered out the window to see what had put her daughter in such a state. Behind them, the green bicycle sparkled in the sun.

  A moment later, they rounded a corner, turning onto a big main street. Wadjda could no longer see the toy shop in the rear window. Fuming, she fell back into her seat, caught the hem of her abayah in her hands, and began twisting it into knots.

  “Madame, only one hour,” Iqbal called from the driver’s seat in his usual broken Arabic. “I have no time to wait for you. You are late, I go. You find taxi.”

  “We understand, I
qbal,” Mother said. “Enough.”

  To stop him from talking to her, she pulled out her phone and pretended to text. Wadjda’s eyes roamed the interior of the car, looking for something to take her mind off the bicycle. She paused on the little girl’s picture, taped—as always—to the dashboard. Wadjda folded her arms across the top of the front passenger seat and pushed her veil up out of her face, trying to get a better look. The girl in the picture had big dark eyes, a mole on one cheek, and a sweet smile, with one tooth missing.

  “Who’s the little girl, Iqbal?” Wadjda asked.

  “This is my daughter,” he said, meeting her eyes in the rearview mirror. “I didn’t see her for three years now.”

  He shook his head, sad but smiling, and adjusted the picture to give Wadjda a better view.

  “She goes to school.” He paused, and then added, “I didn’t go to school.”

  There was so much pride in his voice. It touched Wadjda, but she didn’t show it. This was Iqbal, after all. Sarcasm was always the better option.

  “Obviously you didn’t go to school, because you don’t have any manners,” she said, trying to tease him. In the rearview mirror, Iqbal saw the gleam in her eye.

  “You, too, have no manners,” he retorted, half smiling. Wadjda gave him a grin, showing her teeth, and stuck out her tongue. Her mother pulled her back into her seat, clucking impatiently. She needed nothing more than her eyes to show Wadjda that it was time to knock it off.

  The car bounced and swerved as it sped across the empty desert. In the last week, the weather had cooled even more. Days like this one were almost pleasant. But it was also the time of year when the blasting storms, or huboob, rolled through, covering everything in sand. The huboob always seemed magical to Wadjda. Often, it moved into Riyadh like a rounded wall, the front edges of its sandy cloud reaching into every nook and cranny like the inquisitive fingers of a giant.