The Pot with the Wrong Lid

The station on Crow Hill has four instruments, one radio, and a kitchen the size of a cupboard. Tariq likes the instruments best. Every morning he climbs the metal steps to the roof. He reads the wind gauge and writes the numbers in a blue notebook.

He is seventeen, and he has volunteered here for three months. The work is quiet, and he likes it that way. Nobody asks him questions, and nobody expects him to be funny.

The only other volunteer is Esteban, who comes up from the village every Tuesday and Thursday. Esteban is tall and a little clumsy. He checks the cloud camera, fixes whatever is broken, and hums while he works. Tariq has noticed the humming. He has noticed a lot of things about Esteban, and he tries not to think about them.

On Thursday, Tariq comes down from the roof and finds a pot on the kitchen table. It is a dented green pot with a tin lid that does not fit. The lid sits crooked on top, and a thin line of steam escapes from one side. Beside it lies a note on yellow paper.

The note says, "For the one who reads the dials at six. Be careful, it is hot."

Tariq reads it twice. He reads the dials at six. Everyone on the hill knows that, because it is his job. But Tariq also knows that the visiting scientist sometimes reads the dials at six when she stays overnight. And he thinks she is staying tonight.

"Of course," he says to the empty kitchen. "Of course it is for her."

He feels something heavy settle in his chest. Esteban has cooked a meal for the scientist. It makes sense. She is clever and kind. She has been to places Tariq has only seen on maps. Tariq is just a boy with a notebook.

He puts the lid back on the pot, carefully, and goes to the radio room. He does not want to be in the kitchen when Esteban arrives.

Esteban arrives at ten, carrying a bag of tools. He goes straight to the kitchen and then stops in the doorway. The pot is still on the table, and the note is still beside it. Nobody has touched them.

He looks around, puzzled, and then walks to the radio room. "Hey," he says. "Did you see the pot?"

"I saw it," Tariq says without turning around. He keeps his eyes on the radio dial. "It looks great. I am sure she will love it."

"She?" Esteban asks.

"The scientist." Tariq finally turns his head. "You left it for her, didn't you? I didn't want to eat it by mistake."

Esteban stares at him. For a moment, he looks as if he will laugh. Then he sees Tariq's face and stops. "Wait. You think I cooked for the scientist?"

"The note says the one who reads the dials at six."

"Yes," Esteban says. "That is you."

"She reads them too, sometimes."

"Not this week, she doesn't. She left on Monday. She sent a message about it." Esteban rubs the back of his neck. "Tariq, I wrote that note for you. I did not use your name because I was nervous. I thought a name looked too serious."

Tariq says nothing. The radio hisses softly in the corner.

"I do not cook well," Esteban goes on. "I made the stew three times at home. The first time I burned it. The second time I forgot the salt. The third time is in that pot. I borrowed it from my sister, and it came without its own lid. So I took the lid from another pot. That is why it looks so strange."

"Oh," Tariq says. It is the only word he can find.

"I wanted to say thank you," Esteban says. "You always explain the instruments to me without making me feel stupid. Nobody else does that. And I thought, maybe, if I cooked something, you would stay for lunch."

Tariq looks at the floor, then at the door, then at Esteban. His heart is beating much faster than the wind gauge ever does. "I thought you liked her," he says at last.

"The scientist is very nice," Esteban says. "But I do not hum for her."

Tariq opens his mouth, and nothing comes out. Then he starts to laugh, a real laugh, loud enough to surprise both of them. Esteban laughs too, and the radio crackles as if it wants to join in.

"I am such an idiot," Tariq says.

"No. I am. I could have just written your name."

They walk back to the kitchen together. The stew is still warm, and the steam still escapes from the side of the lid. Tariq lifts it and sniffs. It smells of garlic, tomatoes, and something sweet that he cannot name.

"What is the sweet thing?" he asks.

"Cinnamon. My mother puts it in everything." Esteban looks worried. "Is it too much?"

"I don't know yet." Tariq finds two spoons in the drawer and gives one to Esteban. "We have to taste it to find out."

They sit on two wobbly stools by the small window. From here, they can see the roof and the wind gauge turning. Below them, a long green slope runs down to the village. The first spoonful is hot, and Tariq burns his tongue a little. He does not say so.

"It is good," he says. "It is really good."

"You are only saying that."

"I am not. I would tell you if it was bad. I tell everyone the truth about numbers." Tariq takes a second spoonful. "It needs a little more salt. But the cinnamon works."

Esteban lets out a long breath and grins. He looks younger when he grins, and Tariq has to look at his bowl for a moment.

They eat in the easy silence of two people who no longer have to pretend. Outside, the wind gauge keeps spinning, and the afternoon readings wait on the roof. Neither of them moves to go up.

When the bowls are empty, Tariq picks up the green pot to wash it. The tin lid slides sideways and clatters onto the table. He puts it back on top, and it sits crooked again, just like before.

"It is a terrible lid," Esteban says.

"It is the worst lid I have ever seen." Tariq turns it around, trying to make it fit. It will not fit, however he turns it. He sets it down gently and looks up.

"Do you think," he asks, "that the two of us fit any better?"