“See, I put my heart on my hand, and hold it out to you / it is the most precious thing I own.” Her voice was lovely, just like Talal Maddah’s. Wadjda looked at her, feeling a rush of awe. Her mother was so beautiful. As she cooked, the soft light of sunset reflected off her eyes, making them sparkle. Tonight, she glowed like a star.
“Don’t you wish you were a singer, Ummi? You have the most beautiful voice ever!” The words spilled from Wadjda’s mouth before she could stop them. Blushing, she looked down at the counter, awkwardly patting flour off her hands.
From the corner of her eye, she saw her mother raise her hands to her face in feigned shock.
“Never! I seek refuge with God from what you’ve said!” Though she was smiling, she added sternly, “Remember, Wadjda, a woman’s voice must not carry beyond the front door. It’s important you don’t forget that.”
This bit of wisdom imparted, Mother went back to singing. Now she performed even more dramatically, moving her arms to the rhythm and playfully imitating the moves of the Kingdom’s most famous female singers.
“Ya lillah danah la danah,” she sang. “They say lovers’ hearts melt from longing, but our oaths give us a heaven of love and tenderness.”
Unable to resist, Wadjda joined in. Her voice was high and nervous, but somehow it blended seamlessly with her mother’s.
“Ya lillah danah la danah / They say lovers’ hearts melt from longing, but our oaths give us a heaven of love and tenderness.”
They began to giggle, their laughter blending like their voices. Then they went back to their duties, working hard to bring the meal together.
After a few moments of quiet, Wadjda decided to take advantage of her mother’s good mood.
“So I’ve saved up eighty-seven Riyals already,” she blurted. “I only need seven hundred and thirteen more to get the bicyc—”
“Oof! Again?!” Her mother cut her off before she could finish. “I thought you understood, Wadjda. This subject is closed. You are not getting a bicycle. It is haram! Please, stop.”
Forbidden. It is forbidden. The familiar words fell on Wadjda like a hammer. She bowed her head and bit her tongue. For several minutes, they worked without speaking, her mother rolling the dough, Wadjda cutting it into pieces.
Well, that ruined the moment. It was tough to keep her mother happy on the best days, and here she’d bumbled in and ruined one of the few they’d had in the last week. Wadjda racked her brain, trying to find a subject that would win her back over. It came in a flash—the one topic her mother couldn’t resist. Clothes.
“Ms. Hussa says I need to wear the full abayah to school from now on.” She kept her voice casual, looking away and trying not to smile.
“Wow, the abayah raas!” Her mother immediately took the bait, just as Wadjda had known she would. “Someone’s becoming a woman. And so fast! Almost overnight. Hmm, maybe it’s time we marry you off? What do you think about that?”
“Ha-ha. That’s not funny.” Then the memory hit Wadjda anew, and she scowled. “Ugh, Ummi, Ms. Hussa is so mean to me. She waits at the door, watching us, and when I walk by, she pounces like a cat. Everything I do is wrong to her. Sometimes I wish she would die.”
“Shh! How can you say such a thing? That’s far too harsh.” Wadjda heard real concern in her mother’s voice. “You mustn’t wish death on anyone, Wadjda. And to talk that way about Ms. Hussa, of all people . . . Her life hasn’t been easy.”
“Oh, I know!” Wadjda was so excited by the possibility of gossip that she spoke without thinking. “I’ve heard the story about the ‘thief,’ the one who jumped over the fence of the house to see her—”
Her mother’s lips twitched. Though she turned back to the dough and vegetables, her face showed she was enjoying the gossip as well. The scandalous story of the so-called thief had haunted her mother’s onetime classmate throughout their teenage years.
Arranging the last bit of dough in the pan, she washed her hands and motioned for Wadjda to follow her into her bedroom.
“Come with me,” she said, smiling at her daughter.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
On the other side of the closet door, Wadjda heard the metallic scrape of hangers sliding along the steel bar. When her mother emerged, she was dragging an abayah raas behind her. Its dark folds seemed to go on forever. Lifting the hanger high to pull its full length free of the closet, Mother handed it to Wadjda.
“Try this,” she said with a laugh. “It might be a little long, but you can always carry it like this.”
Her mother bunched up her dress in her hands and paced the room, like a princess lifting her ball gown to cross a puddle of water. Smiling in spite of herself, Wadjda slid the massively oversized garment over her small, thin frame.
“Just like Ms. Hussa!” She giggled, bunching the cloth in her fists and attempting her best impression of the principal’s elegant strut. Then, throwing up her hands, she gave her mother a look of playful shock and murmured, “Oh no! A thief!”
Wiggling her rear end, she pretended to scamper away. This time her mother failed to suppress her amusement. “Shame on you, talking that way,” she said, trying to keep a straight face. “We don’t know! It could have been a thief.”
They burst into hysterical laughter together.
As they caught their breath, Wadjda felt the mood in the room change. Her mother crossed her arms and looked out the window, fixing her eyes on a spot in the distance. Impulsively, Wadjda reached up and pulled down the full abayah and veil. Standing in the middle of the room, completely cloaked in black, she looked like a phantom, some sort of shadowy figure from the underworld.
Her mother was still looking out the window. Wadjda stumbled forward to stand beside her. Without looking down at her daughter, her mother reached out and absentmindedly adjusted Wadjda’s veil.
“Your uncle’s wedding is coming up.” She spoke abruptly, as if this was what she’d been thinking about the whole afternoon. “I have to buy something very nice to wear. You know, so that all the other women see what they’re up against.”
A wave of compassion swept through Wadjda’s body. She bunched up the sleeves of the abayah raas and twined her fingers together. The tense atmosphere at wedding parties was way too familiar—Wadjda knew what was coming. Although the wedding wouldn’t take place for some time, she could already feel stress radiating off her mother.
Weddings took place in two segregated realms: one for men, and one for women. The two parties couldn’t be more different. In their area, the men would drink coffee and tea and . . . what?
Well, basically, Wadjda thought, they stare at one another. Over and over, the men would exchange awkward greetings. They were like goldfish swimming in a bowl, seeing other fish for the first time, blowing bubbles—then forgetting and doing the whole thing over again a few seconds later. The tribal world had never taken the art of conversation very seriously. From what Wadjda had seen, men’s talk rarely extended beyond “Hello” and “How are you?”
In contrast to the men’s snore-fest, the women knew how to party. Weddings were the only opportunity women had to dress seductively, and they took advantage. Funny, Wadjda thought, cause they were just showing off for other women! Dresses were skintight and left little to the imagination—especially in the cleavage area. Totally embarrassing!
The tagaga, or wedding singer, knew how desperate the women were to let loose, so she made things even wilder. Her music offered a sound track guaranteed to get the ladies on their feet. In addition to singing, the tagaga played the duff, a large tambourine-like drum, patting it heavily with her palms in a rhythmic beat that pushed everyone to dance faster, faster! Sometimes women would pretend they were possessed by demons. That way, they could go out on the dance floor and shake their heads like crazy, writhe their bodies, wiggle their butts. Just be super ridiculous, really, Wadjda thought. It looked fun.
&nbs
p; But among the joy, the women were watching one another. Potential young brides glided around the dance floor with grace and fake modesty. And women whose husbands had decided to take on new, younger wives did a special dance to show that they were still around, even though they’d been relegated to “second wife” status. Their husbands might have decided to marry again—it was not uncommon for men to have multiple wives—but still they wanted to intimidate potential rivals.
The second wives had to keep up a proud face in public, even if the idea of their husbands marrying another woman hurt them deeply. To maintain their dignity, they would allow themselves to be swept up by the music and dance without fear. It was a declaration to the world that they were strong.
Yet, they were like wounded birds, too. The memory of a pigeon that had flown into the glass of her classroom window came to Wadjda’s mind. She’d stood in the courtyard and watched the delicate creature struggle on the ground. Its wings were hurt, but it was determined to fly again. Though it was too injured to take flight, it would not accept it.
The second wives were like that. Beautiful, hurt, and too proud to acknowledge their pain. When they danced, everyone at the party stopped to watch. Unlike the other events in the women’s room, their dance brought collective sympathy and understanding.
Wadjda thought again of the strangeness between her parents. She shivered. She didn’t want her mother to have to dance the dance of the second wives, not yet, not ever.
As if she could hear her daughter’s thoughts, her mother stood back from the window and ran her eyes up and down Wadjda’s form. Head bowed, arms outstretched, Wadjda turned to face her. Black fabric cascaded across her body, spilling onto the floor like a puddle of oil, leaving no trace of the girl beneath. Her mother smiled sadly. It was as if she was seeing her mischievous runt transform into a woman, right before her eyes.
Before either of them could speak, the phone in the kitchen rang. Mother rushed to answer it, leaving Wadjda alone.
Stumbling over the folds of the abayah raas, Wadjda moved to the door and stuck her head out, watching her mother snatch up the phone and hold it against her ear with one shoulder. With her free hand, she lifted the lid off the pot of margoog and stirred it slowly. As she listened to her friend, she absently lifted the spoon to her lips for a taste.
“I’m so sorry, Leila. Iqbal, you know, our driver? He’s so rude! He shouted at poor Aiesha yesterday. Aiesha, who never raises her voice! She cried the whole way home. Three hours of tears. Can you imagine?”
The conversation continued, but Wadjda decided it wasn’t worth eavesdropping any further. Leila was trying to find a driver, and Wadjda’s mother had no way of helping her. All she could do was lend a sympathetic ear.
This is going to be a long one, Wadjda thought. Poor Ummi.
Removing the abayah raas, she flopped down on the floor and went back to her new favorite hobby: counting money. The abayah raas she threw across the bed. It was so big that if she’d spread it all the way out, it could have been mistaken for a sheet. The thought of wearing it to school was awful.
To distract herself, Wadjda ran her finger down from the top of the 800 Riyals column. She stopped at 25 and crossed it out. Then she sorted once more through the new stack of banknotes.
Forty-five, 50, 55, 60, 65, 70, 75, 80, 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86 . . . Eighty-seven Riyals.
Perfect. Just like I thought. Wadjda nodded in approval and added the new figure to the bottom of the column.
In the kitchen, she heard her mother beginning to protest, to refuse her friend’s pleas for help. Her voice was kind, but also firm.
“Leila, dear, we’re completely full. Honestly, you’d be better off with another driver.” A moment of silence. “If you’re lucky, you’ll get someone better than Iqbal!”
Wadjda raised the money to her lips, gave it an enthusiastic smack of a kiss, and put it carefully in a drawer.
On second thought . . .
She buried it in the very back, hiding it behind a pile of socks and underwear.
“Really? Abeer? Mariam’s daughter?” Her mother sounded invigorated—like she’d been hit with a jolt of electricity. “How did she even end up in a car with him? Who is he?”
The words sank in slowly, and Wadjda felt her whole body go cold. It was like she’d been plunged into a pool of ice and was freezing from the outside in. Breathlessly, she tallied up the different Abeers her mother and Leila knew. Wadjda had a cousin named Abeer, but her aunt’s name was Sara, not Mariam.
Please, please don’t let it be that Abeer, she thought, digging her nails into her palms.
“Of course,” her mother was saying. Leila must have told her the boy’s name. Her mother laughed. “He’s a playboy, just like his father.” She laughed again.
In her bedroom, Wadjda grimaced, trying not to imagine the whole terrible scene—and her role in it.
“You have to admit, his father’s good-looking,” her mother said with a giggle.
Wadjda moved to her desk chair. Perching on the edge, she craned her body toward the door, hoping to hear any bit of information that would place this story far from her, her school, and stupid Abeer—who’d probably gotten caught red-handed with the note Wadjda had delivered.
“The religious police? Mariam must be dying!” The shock and delight of having a genuine scandal to talk about had transformed her mother. “Come now, they should have married her off a long time ago. Pretty girls are curses on a family.”
Wadjda drew herself up into a ball. If only she could shrink away further and disappear into nothing. Trying to assess the magnitude of what was to come felt overwhelming. She heard the front door open and buried her head in her arms, wishing there were some sort of escape hatch through which she could bolt to freedom.
“I have to go, Leila,” she heard her mother say happily. “Our father’s home!” This was, Wadjda knew, the way wives referred to their husbands—as “our father.” “Keep me in the loop on this Abeer scandal. Yalla, bye.”
A second later, the door to Wadjda’s room swung open. Her mother stuck her head in, her eyes darting about distractedly. Already, she’d removed the casual bandanna she wore to cook and started to fix her hair.
At the desk, Wadjda tried to look busy—and tried not to think about Abeer.
“Go and say hello to your father while I get dinner ready.” Her mother was clearly distracted. Her eyes kept darting toward the front door, but something in Wadjda’s shallow breathing alerted her to trouble. She looked more closely at her daughter and asked, “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
Wadjda looked back at her like a deer caught in the headlights. Her mother smiled ruefully and went back to fixing her hair. Tucking the glossy strands behind her ears, she said, “Don’t worry, Wadjda. We won’t marry you off. . . . Not just yet!”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Wadjda walked slowly into the majlis, the formal living room her mother reserved for her father and his guests. It felt like a foreign space in her cozy home, and it made her even more nervous.
It’s only a matter of time before Father, and everyone else, figures out what I did, she thought. The scene she imagined made her legs shake even more. The Abeer scandal would be huge.
In the majlis, her father sat on the floor in front of the large flat-screen HDTV, leaning against a multicolored cushion, playing a video game on his beloved Xbox. His ghutra and iqal were folded up next to him. Wadjda’s eyes went instantly to his brand-new cell phone, tossed casually on top of the pile. It was his third in as many months. Probably shoots laser beams out the bottom or something, she thought, lips twisting wryly.
On her father’s right, a string of light blue prayer beads lay within arm’s reach. Usually, the sight of this familiar object made Wadjda smile. It meant her father was home. But today, even that joy was temporarily banished. All she could think about was taking Abeer’s not
e to the boy. How could she have been so stupid? Such a mess for forty Riyals.
Enough. Lingering by the door made her look suspicious, like a bad guy in an old movie. Wadjda squared her shoulders and stepped forward. At the sound of her footsteps, her father turned and smiled at her.
If he only knew! In her defense, Wadjda thought, she’d wanted to help Abeer. The problem was that she’d taken her money—and the boy’s. It put her in a bad position.
She plopped down on the end of the couch, choosing the side closest to her father. For a few minutes, she watched the game, but it was boring—the usual slashing and shouting and killing. Casually, like she was yawning, she reached over to the side table and turned her framed Certificate of Excellence in Math to face him. Sensing her movement, he glanced over quickly and took it in.
Then his eyes darted back to the television.
“I’m losing. I should have stayed with my usual fighter.” He leaned his whole body into the swing of his character’s sword, gesturing wildly with the controller. On the screen a haggard warrior slumped over, as if exhausted by the battle.
“You’re doomed,” Wadjda said, bored. “The other guy jumps way faster.”
Her father took a deep breath and looked up at her with mock annoyance. Then, shaking his head, he went back to his virtual warfare.
“So is that a real certificate,” he asked, lifting the controller and twisting it to the right, “or a fake one like you made last year?”
Wadjda could hear the laughter in his voice, and smiled in spite of herself.
“Are you kidding? I’m great at math. Do you want to hear”—Wadjda paused, sounding out the convoluted name in her head—“Py-thag-o-rean’s Theory? It’s a miracle—a proof of God! If you add up the angles right, all the things come out the same!”
She settled back onto the couch and crossed her arms triumphantly.
“Sounds like you know what you’re talking about.” Her father tossed a smile in her direction—and kept playing the game, face focused and intent.
The Green Bicycle Page 8
