Would it come tonight? Wadjda wondered, pressing her face back against the window. Already visibility was limited. Gusts of sand, driven by the wind, covered the road ahead of them. But it wasn’t a real storm, not yet.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The mall was bright, cool, and crowded, its arched hallways full of people rushing in every direction, trying to get their shopping done before the stores closed for dusk prayer. All the female shoppers looked the same, distinguishable only by the make and size of their handbags. The men looked more or less the same, too. Every one of them seemed to be wearing a white thobe and red-checked ghutra. And every person in the mall had the same harried look in his or her eyes—including Wadjda’s mother.
The second floor, where they were heading, was especially crowded with figures dressed in black or white. It looks like a giant chessboard, Wadjda thought. But the pieces were shifting too fast for her to keep track of them. Her mother walked ahead, moving quickly, not looking at the masses of laughing, chatting people.
Behind her, Wadjda lingered, moving aimlessly. At a kiosk selling accessories and small pieces of jewelry, she stopped. Heading straight to the salesperson, she pointed accusingly at the rack of bracelets. They looked just like the ones she wove, but without the homemade touch that made hers special. The sign above read, ONLY 20 RIYALS!
“I make better bracelets than these,” Wadjda said, winding one of the poor imitations between her fingers. “How much will you pay me to make you some? Ten Riyals apiece?”
“No thanks,” the guy behind the counter said, laughing. “I buy them from China, little girl. For ten Riyals, I can get ten thousand.”
“China won’t do the national colors!” Wadjda countered. Her custom bracelets are a far superior product, she thought, examining the one in her hand closely. This twine was cheap. The color would fade, or it would break, after only a few wears.
“You mean like this?” the salesman spun the rack, pointing to bracelets in several variations of Saudi green and white.
“Wadjda! Where are you? Wadjda!”
Oops. Standing on tiptoe, Wadjda searched the mall, striving to make out the source of her mother’s voice. The shout came again, this time clearly from above. Wadjda looked up and saw her mother, already on the upper level, glaring down at her through the small slit that exposed her eyes. Waving off the ignorant shopkeeper, who had no idea how great a business deal he’d just blown, Wadjda raced to the escalator.
On the way, she passed a series of posters. The first advertised the most Islamic method of wearing the veil. The second was about the importance of acting decent in mixed-gender places, like the mall and the big open-air marketplace of the souq. Running around wasn’t okay, apparently. Too bad, Wadjda thought, shuffling as fast as she could up the escalator.
When she caught up to her mother, she was dawdling in front of a dress shop at the far end of the corridor. A large assortment of gowns filled the window. They were in every color of the rainbow, and most were embellished with crystals and beading. A beautiful red dress stood out among the others, and it was this fantastic creation that Wadjda’s mother was staring at hungrily.
They walked inside, and her mother reached out to feel the fabric of the red dress. She caressed the silk, letting it run across her fingers. Something about the way she studied it broke Wadjda’s heart. There was such yearning in that gaze. Or maybe it was the contrast between the bright red garment and her mother’s featureless black abayah.
Suddenly, as if she’d snapped out of a trance, Mother dropped the sleeve of the red dress and walked over to the salesman.
“May I see the red dress in the window, please?” she asked. From her body language, Wadjda could tell she felt uneasy talking to this strange man. Her mother’s shoulders were stiff, and she hung back cautiously, not coming close to the salesman as they talked.
Turning away, Wadjda plopped down on a chair near the entry and stared out at the action in the corridors. From the corner of her eye, she saw the salesman remove the dress from the mannequin in the window. Quickly, he covered the naked form with a cloth. Then, critically, he ran his eyes up and down the full length of her mother’s body. His scrutiny made her blush. Wadjda saw the tops of her pink cheeks beneath her veil.
“It’s a beautiful dress,” he said, “but maybe a little big for you.”
Her mother nervously tucked her hands into her abayah, like a turtle retreating back into its shell.
“What size is it?”
“Large,” the salesman said. Wadjda’s mother was petite, and he seemed confident that it would overwhelm her slender frame.
“That’s all right.” Her mother spoke fast, like she was hoping to end the conversation as soon as possible. “Can I try it?”
“Sure,” the salesman shrugged. “You can use the women’s bathroom.” He pointed toward the public washroom at the very end of the corridor. “If it turns out to be big, we can tailor it for you. After you pay a deposit, of course.”
Dressing rooms were not allowed in individual shops. It wasn’t okay for women to take their clothes off in open, unprotected places—or so the reasoning went. Wadjda had heard that salesmen sometimes put up secret cameras or drilled holes in the walls so they could see naked women while they changed. To stay safe from prying eyes, women had to try on clothes in the public bathrooms instead.
In the small, cramped room, Wadjda perched uncomfortably on the hard edge of the sink while her mother changed in the stall. The bathroom had a squat toilet, nothing more than a hole in the ground with grooves on either side for the feet. The floor was wet from splashing water, so her mother changed gingerly, standing on tiptoes, trying not to let her clothes touch the floor. Positioning her body awkwardly near the door, she struggled to finish zipping the dress while holding its hem up between her legs.
“I know it’s a lot of money,” her mother whispered, “but I have to show your father that he can’t do better than me.”
Her mother wasn’t really talking to her, Wadjda thought. She was just trying to comfort herself. Since no reply was needed, Wadjda kept playing with the soap dispenser: pushing the lever, filling her cupped palm with soap, then rinsing it off and watching bubbles foam up in the sink. It was boring, but at least it was something to do.
Despite all the distractions of the mall, her mind was still full of thoughts about her bicycle. That stupid rich kid was probably riding it around now, getting it all muddy. And here she was, trapped and helpless, playing with soap, totally unable to stop him.
After what felt like forever, her mother opened the stall door and stepped out. She spun in a slow circle, showing off the dress. Even in the dank, smelly bathroom, with its flickering fluorescent lights, her beauty was undeniable. But Wadjda, leaning over the sink, holding her mother’s abayah in her nonsoapy hand, was still too preoccupied with thoughts of her bike to do more than give a half nod.
“Do you think your father will like it?” Mother asked, twirling around. Again, she spoke more to herself than to Wadjda. As the shopkeeper had predicted, the dress was way too big. She had to pull the sides tight around her waist to imitate a proper fit. Noticing this, Wadjda shrugged and held her hands out to either side, to show how huge the dress looked.
“Let’s take it back to the salesman. I’ll give him a deposit so he can start getting it fitted.” Mother sounded annoyed that Wadjda wasn’t being more supportive. “Then we have to go quickly, before Iqbal gets angry and leaves.”
She raised the dress up to her ankles and went back into the stall. Wadjda jumped off the sink and handed her the abayah, passing the bundled cloth carefully over the door.
“Don’t worry,” she said quietly. “He won’t leave.”
Strangely, it was true. She trusted him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The 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.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
The 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 h
er 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.
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