What Is the What: The Autobiography of Valentino Achak Deng by Dave Eggers

William K at first is giggling, but his mirth disappears when Moses lands a mighty punch to William K’s eye. William K squeals with pain and frustration, and immediately the tone and tenor of his wrestling changes. In a flurry he is atop Moses and lands three quick blows to Moses’s arms—crossed in front of his face—before I pull him off.
    In my dream-day our scuffle is interrupted by the sight of something so bright we all have to squint to see it. We rise slowly from the dirt and walk toward the market. Light shoots from the trunk of a tree in the market, near Bok’s restaurant, and we sleepwalk toward it, our mouths agape. Only as we are upon the source of light we can see that it’s not some second sun but is actually a bicycle, absolutely new, polished to a gleam, magnificent.
    Where did it come from? Who owns it? It is easily the most spectacular object in all of Marial Bai. Its pedals are the silver of the stars, its handlebars exquisitely shaped. The color of the frame is different from any color previously seen in town, a mixture of blue and green and white, swirled together as in the deepest part of a river.
    Jok notices us admiring the bicycle and comes to bask in the glow.
    —Nice bike, right? he says.
    Jok Nyibek Arou, the owner of the town’s tailor shop, has just purchased the bicycle from an Arab trader from over the river, in a truck full of very new and impressive objects, most of them mechanically complex—clocks, bed frames made of steel, a teapot with a top that springs open, on its own, when the water is boiling.
    —Cost me quite a bit of money, boys.
    We don’t doubt him for a moment.
    —Would you like to see me ride it? he asks.
    We nod gravely.
    Then Jok gets on the bike, as gingerly as if he were mounting a mule made of glass, and begins to push the pedals with such care that he barely keeps himself vertical. The other men of the market, happy for Jok and jealous of him and also wanting a joke or two at his expense, greet his very slow rides with a string of insults and rhetorical questions. Jok answers each very calmly.
    —That as fast as you’re going to go, Jok?
    —The bike is new, Joseph. I’m being careful.
    —You may break it, Jok. It’s fragile!
    —I am getting used to it, Gorial.
    Gorial, who does not work, drinks most days and borrows money he cannot repay. No one likes him much, but this day, he makes a point of showing Jok how slow he is going on the color-swirled bicycle. As Jok rides by, Gorial walks the path next to him, indicating that he can easily stroll faster than Jok is riding.
    —My two legs are faster than that whole beautiful bicycle, Jok.
    —I don’t care. Someday I might ride it faster. Not yet, though.
    —I think you’re getting the tires dirty, Jok. Careful!
    Jok smiles at Gorial, smiles placidly at all of his spectators, because he has the most beautiful object in Marial Bai and they do not.
    When Jok has again parked the bike against the tree, and is admiring it with me and Moses and William K, the talk turns serious. There is debate about the plastic. The bicycle has been delivered covered in plastic, plastic that like a series of transparent socks covers all of the bicycle’s metal tubing. Jok examines the bike, his arms crossed before him.
    —It’s a shame that they don’t tell you whether the covering is necessary, he says.
    We are afraid to say anything about the plastic, for fear that Jok will send us away.
    Jok’s brother, John, the tallest man in Marial Bai, angular and with close-set eyes, approaches. —Of course you take off the plastic, Jok. You take the plastic off of anything. It’s just for the shipping. Let me help you…
    —No!
    Jok physically restrains his brother. —Just give me a moment to think about this.
    At this point, Kenyang Luol, younger brother of the chief, is standing with us. He strokes his chin and finally offers his opinion.
    —Remove the plastic, and the thing rusts the first time it gets wet. The paint