The Lid That Came from a Wheel

Ozan sits in his taxi at the town taxi stop. He watches the empty road. There are no customers today. There are five taxis in a row and five bored drivers. Nobody wants a ride.

It is a small town. Everything is close. People walk to the shop, to the school, to the market. A taxi is for sick people, late people and lost people. Today, nobody is any of those.

"I want one long ride," Ozan says to the dashboard. "Just one. Is that too much?"

The dashboard does not answer. He opens the window and looks at the road.

A woman comes around the corner. She walks fast, with both arms around a big steel pot. Soup drips from the side and leaves a line on the ground. She stops at the first taxi, then the second. Both drivers are asleep. Then she reaches Ozan's.

"Please," she says. "I need to go to the farm road. It is forty minutes away."

"Get in," says Ozan. He smiles for the first time all week.

She sits in the back. The pot is hot, and she holds it on her knees. The lid is on top, but it is too small. It sits to one side, like a hat on a child.

"Is that soup?" Ozan asks.

"Yes. My name is Inge. My sister has a new baby. She has no time to cook." Inge looks at the pot. "I made enough for ten days. But the lid is wrong."

"It looks wrong."

"I bought the pot in a market last year. The lid did not come with it. I took one from a different pot." She sighs. "On the road, the soup will go everywhere."

Ozan looks at the pot in the mirror. A small wave of soup moves to the edge. He starts the engine, then turns it off again.

"One minute," he says. "Do not move."

He gets out and walks to the taxi behind his. The driver is an older man with a grey cap. He puts down his newspaper.

"Do you have a lid?" Ozan asks. "A big one. Round."

"What kind of lid?"

"For a very big pot of soup."

The man thinks about it. Then he opens his trunk and takes out a frying pan. "This?"

Ozan carries it back. He puts it on top of the pot. It is far too small. It falls inside the soup with a loud splash.

"That is not a lid," says Inge. She pulls it out. "That is a swimming pan."

Ozan laughs. He goes to the next taxi. The woman who drives it opens a plastic box.

"I have a big plate," she says. "Will that work?"

It does not. The plate is flat and slides off. The soup runs over the edge, and Inge cries out. Ozan tries a basket from the third driver. The soup comes right through. The fourth driver offers a wooden board. It is too heavy and does not fit the edge.

Soon, all five drivers stand around Ozan's taxi. They all look at the pot like doctors.

"Maybe a cloth," says one.

"Maybe tape," says another.

"Tape on soup?" Inge asks. "I do not think so."

The oldest driver looks at his watch. "It is almost noon. The shops close for lunch. You will find no lid in this town for two hours."

Inge lowers her face. "My sister will wait," she says. "She is very hungry."

Ozan feels bad. He asked for a long ride. Now he has one, and it cannot start. He looks around the stop. His eyes move over the cars, the road, the empty benches. Then they land on the back of his own taxi.

His left rear wheel has no cover. A round steel hubcap fell off last month. He keeps a spare cover in his trunk. It lies next to the jack. He never put it on.

"Wait," he says.

He runs to the back and opens the trunk. He lifts out the spare hubcap. It is wide and shiny, with a tiny dent at the edge. He pours water over it from his bottle. He dries it with a clean cloth.

"It is a wheel cover," says the grey-cap driver. "You cannot be serious."

"It is round," Ozan says. "It is steel. It is clean."

He holds it over the pot. He lowers it slowly. It touches the edge of the metal. Then it sinks down with a soft click, and sits tight.

Nobody speaks. The pot is closed. The soup is still.

"It fits," Inge whispers. "It fits better than the real lid."

"Better than any lid," says the woman with the plate.

Inge tilts the pot. Nothing comes out. She shakes it a little, and still nothing. She looks at Ozan, and her eyes are bright.

"Please, let me pay you for it," she says.

"No." Ozan shakes his head. "I am happy to give it. My wheel looked bad without it anyway."

"But it is yours."

"Today, it is yours." He picks up his keys. "Besides, I asked for a long ride. You asked for a lid. Maybe the town just did us both a favor."

The other drivers laugh and return to their cars. They wave as Ozan pulls out of the stop. The pot stays steady on Inge's knees. The smell of the soup fills the taxi. It smells like onions and warm butter.

The road goes out of town and into the fields. Ozan drives slowly. At each corner, he looks in the mirror. The lid does not move once.

After twenty minutes, his stomach makes a loud noise. He tries to cover it with a cough. Inge hears it anyway.

She smiles at the mirror. "Is somebody hungry?"

"A little," Ozan says. He keeps his eyes on the road. He taps the wheel. Then he asks, very softly, "Does your sister have a spoon?"