The Crack in the Lucky Pot

The night market opened at six. By seven, the food row was full of smoke and noise. Lamps hung over every stall. People walked slowly and smelled everything.

Stellan worked at the third stall from the corner. It sold fried noodles and small sweet buns. The owner was Gabor. He was loud, kind and always in a hurry.

It was Stellan's second week. He was nineteen. He washed pots, carried bags of rice and wiped the counter. He wanted to learn how to cook. Gabor promised him one real lesson on Friday.

On the end of the counter stood a flower pot. It was round and blue, with little white birds painted on it. A green plant grew inside. Gabor called it his lucky plant.

"This pot came from my first stall," he said that evening. "Ten years. Please never move it."

"I won't," said Stellan.

But an hour later, a big delivery came. A man pushed a cart of boxes along the row. Stellan stepped back to make space. His elbow hit the pot.

The pot fell off the counter. It hit the stone floor with a sharp sound. Stellan froze. Nobody looked. The market was too loud.

He knelt down. The pot was not in pieces. But a long crack ran from the edge to the middle. Dark soil slid out of it, and a few small stones.

His stomach felt cold. He looked up. Gabor was at the stove with his back to him. Smoke rose around him, and he shouted an order to the cook.

Stellan did a bad thing. He picked up the pot and pushed the soil back inside. He put the pot on the counter again. He turned the crack to the wall.

From the front, it looked perfect. The white birds still flew across the blue. The green plant still stood tall.

"Stellan! Two portions of noodles for table four!" Gabor shouted.

"Coming!" said Stellan. His voice sounded thin.

The next hour was busy. Stellan ran between the stove and the tables. He carried plates and cups. He smiled at customers. But his mind stayed with the pot. Every time he passed it, his chest felt tight.

Around nine, a small girl came to the counter with her mother. She looked at the plant. She had big, curious eyes.

"The birds are pretty," she said. Then she walked around the end of the counter. "Why is the back broken?"

Stellan's heart jumped. "It is an old pot," he said fast. "Old pots get cracks."

The girl touched the crack with one finger. A thin line of water ran down the blue side. It dripped onto the floor.

"It cries," she said.

Her mother laughed and took her hand. They walked away with their buns. But Stellan stayed where he was. He looked at the small wet circle on the stone.

He knew that the plant needed water. He knew that the crack grew bigger. By morning, the pot might fall apart. And Gabor could find out in the worst way.

He thought about the pot. It came with Gabor from his first stall. He thought about ten years of nights like this one. His hiding place was only a small lie. But the lie grew.

There was a quiet moment at ten, between two groups of customers. Gabor stood by the counter and drank a glass of water. Stellan took a breath.

"Gabor, I need to tell you something."

"Tell me while I drink," said Gabor. "It is the only quiet minute I have."

"I broke your lucky pot," said Stellan. The words came out fast. "I hit it with my elbow. It fell. I turned the crack to the wall so you could not see."

Gabor put down his glass. He picked up the pot with both hands and turned it around. He looked at the long crack. He said nothing for a while.

Stellan waited. He expected a loud voice. He expected to lose his job. He kept his eyes on the floor.

"Why did you hide it?" Gabor asked. His voice was low.

"I felt too bad," said Stellan. "You said never to move it."

"I am a little angry," said Gabor. "But not about the pot."

Stellan looked up.

"Pots break," Gabor said. "Everyone breaks something here. Last month I broke three plates and a big pan. But you waited more than three hours to tell me. That part is hard for me."

"I'm sorry," said Stellan. "I was afraid to say it."

"I know." Gabor put the pot down gently. "But you told me. Many people never do."

He turned and looked down the row. A man at the next stall sold glue, tools and lamps. Gabor pointed at the stall.

"Go to the tool stall. Buy a tube of strong glue. And ask him for a piece of thin wire."

Stellan ran. He came back with the glue and the wire in two minutes. His hands shook a little.

Gabor cleared a corner of the counter. He took out the plant. He set it in a bowl of water. Then he held the two sides of the pot together. "Put the glue on the crack," he said. "A thin line. Not too much."

Stellan did it slowly. He pressed the edges together and held them for a long minute. Gabor put the wire around the pot three times, like a belt. The pot looked a little strange, but it was strong.

"Now we wait one hour," said Gabor. "The glue needs time. It will not be pretty."

"I can buy you a new pot," said Stellan.

"I don't want a new one," said Gabor. "This one has ten years in it. Now it also has this night."

They sold noodles for another hour. Then Gabor put the plant back in the pot. He set it on the counter. This time the crack faced the front. The wire shone under the lamp.

"Some people mend pots with gold," Gabor said. "They say a mended thing is worth more. I only have wire. It will do."

Stellan laughed, and the tight feeling left his chest. He wiped his hands on his apron. The market was loud again. The smell of noodles filled the air.

A man walked up to the stall. He looked at the menu on the wall. Then he looked at the pot.

"Nice plant," he said. "Is it lucky?"

"Very lucky," said Stellan.

Gabor smiled. "And on Friday," he said, "you still get your cooking lesson." He reached over and tapped the old brass bell on the counter. It always called new customers to the stall.

Ding.