The Green Bicycle by Haifaa Al Mansour

her beautiful green bicycle was resting on top of a delivery truck.
    Her heart locked on to that bike. Without even realizing her feet were moving, she began to run after it, heart thumping in her chest. The bicycle disappeared down the next block, caught up in the flow of cars cramming the busy street. The truck maneuvered behind a shiny red Ferrari and a rusted pickup, both of which jockeyed for position in front of an old 1980s-style limousine. All the cars were pushing their way toward the stoplight at the next intersection.
    There, the chaos of the traffic spilled out beyond the three marked lanes of the street to create five distinct rows of cars. With horns honking and engines grumbling, drivers crowded their way onto the shoulders on both sides of the road. The only traffic rule in Riyadh was muscle. Driving here was an endless game of chicken. The key was to keep moving forward. You never gave in or let yourself be intimidated by other, more fearless drivers.
    As Wadjda watched, the truck turned anddisappeared 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, Wadjdapressed 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—orinfamously—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