Mma Ramotswe looked at the apprentice. “And you, Fanwell?”

“I have done all my work, Mma.” He gestured to the car behind him. “This was much easier than we thought. All I had to do was…”

She did not need an explanation. Since things were so slack, she said, Mr. Polopetsi could look after the garage and her office for a few hours, could he not? And Fanwell could come with her. “You can drive my new van, Fanwell,” she said, dangling the keys in front of him. “And you can help me with something.” She did not need to say what it was; a look sufficed.

Fanwell was particularly pleased to drive the van. “This is very good, Mma,” he said as they pulled out into the traffic. “Listen to that engine. It is like a bee. Bzz bzz. Like a very happy bee.”

Mma Ramotswe sighed. “My old van made such interesting noises,” she said. “Sometimes I thought that the engine was talking to me.”

Fanwell glanced at her. “Yes, Mma. I think I understand how you feel.”

She returned his glance. A year ago she would never have imagined that either of the young men-Charlie or Fanwell- would understand such feelings. They liked speed and noise and loud music; they liked talking about girls and bars and football teams. Now it was different, and she realised how easy it is to misjudge the young, to imagine that they share none of the more complex emotions that shape our lives as we grow older. Well, they do, she said to herself; they have those feelings too, and suddenly they become capable of seeing them in others.

“Thank you, Fanwell,” she said. “I miss that van. I miss it here.” She touched her chest, where her heart was.

He said nothing for a moment, but then half turned to face her.

Mma Ramotswe tapped his shoulder before he could say anything. “You must watch the road while you're driving, Rra. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni says that most accidents happen when people are eating or trying to do something else while they drive.”

“I'm watching. I just wanted you to remember, Mma, what I said yesterday. I said that I couldn't guarantee anything. I might not be able to fix your van.”

She knew that, and reassured him that she did not expect a miracle. But as they approached Harry Moloso's scrapyard, she found her heart beating noticeably faster. It was only two days since the van had been towed away, and she did not imagine that there was much that could have happened to it in that time. Yet it was possible. The van might already have been crushed in one of those machines that transformed a car body into a cube of compressed metal. That would be hard to bear-to see a tiny white cube where once there had been a living van.

“There's Harry Moloso's place,” said Fanwell, pointing at an untidy-looking yard with a corrugated-tin fence. “See it? It's a big place-it stretches all the way back there. Full of old cars, tractors, trucks-everything.”

They stopped at the gate, which was controlled by an elderly security guard in a khaki uniform. He came over and listened while Fanwell explained who they were and the nature of their errand. A barrier was raised-a gum-pole painted in red and white stripes-and they were in the yard.

“It is like the elephants' graveyard,” said Fanwell. “You know that place where elephants go to die. All those white bones. Here it is the skeletons of cars.”

Fanwell was drawing up beside the office, a small breeze-block construction painted in lime green and with a large sign attached. Harry Moloso, Mr. Metal Magnet. Metal Resurrection-Miracles Daily.

“He calls himself Mr. Metal Magnet,” said Fanwell, pointing to the sign. “That is a good name for a scrap merchant.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled weakly. She was gazing around the yard, looking for the tiny white van. At the back of the yard there were several old buses, wheel-less and listing heavily, their windows gaping holes; there were things behind them that she could not see from where she was standing. The tiny white van could easily be concealed there.

They walked up to the half-open door of the office.

“Ko, ko!” Mma Ramotswe called out.

A voice came from within. “I'm in here. Come in, Mma.”

They pushed at the door, which moved back on protesting hinges. For a rich man, as everybody said Harry Moloso was, he had not spent much money on his office. Here and there on the floor, some in small pools of oil, were engine parts, wrenched from old engines, wires and pipes, like discarded innards; elsewhere there were piles of papers, of trade directories and spare parts manuals, unfiled letters. It was like Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni's office in the old days, before she and Mma Makutsi had jointly tackled it, but considerably worse than that.

“Dumela, Rra,” began Mma Ramotswe. “You are Harry Moloso?”

The man sitting on a bench seat salvaged from an old car rose to his feet when they entered. He had been reading a newspaper, which he now folded and tossed down on a desk.

“I am Harry Moloso himself,” he said. He looked at Fanwell and winked. “And you're the young man who works with Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, aren't you? You've been round for spares recently I think.”

“I brought an old van round,” said Fanwell. “I brought it along with Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.”

Harry Moloso nodded. “Of course you did. A funny old white van. Ancient. Belonged to some fat lady, you said-suspension was shot on one side.”

Mma Ramotswe did not look at Fanwell. “Traditionally built,” she whispered, just loud enough for the young man to hear.

Harry Moloso heard too. “Yes, they built them very well in those days.”

Mma Ramotswe said nothing. Yes, they built vans and people well in those days.

“This lady is wanting to buy it back, Rra,” said Fanwell.

Harry Moloso looked surprised. “Back? It was yours was it, Mma?”

Mma Ramotswe nodded. “It was my van, Rra. I'd like to try to have it fixed now. Fanwell here said that he could try.”

Harry Moloso looked at Fanwell. “Quite a job, I'd say, Mr. Big Mechanic.”

“Yes, Rra,” said Fanwell. “But I'd like to try.”

Harry Moloso turned to Mma Ramotswe. “I'm very sorry, Mma. You're too late. I sold that van almost immediately. Somebody came in.”

“Who bought it, Rra?” asked Fanwell quickly.

“No idea,” said Harry Moloso. “Never seen him. He said that he came from Machaneng. He paid cash. Not very much, of course. He said he might try to fix it up.”

Mma Ramotswe hardly dared speak. “And he… he…”

“Towed it away,” said Harry Moloso. He spoke gently, as if he realised that what he said was the end to a hope. “He was taking it all the way up there. Four hours of towing, I'd say. Rather him than me.”

Fanwell thanked him, and they returned to the blue van. “So,” the apprentice began, “that looks like the end of the road for the white van, Mma. I'm very sorry.”

Mma Ramotswe looked out of the window, away from Fanwell, across the bleak field of broken metal. “There is another road,” she said quietly. “There is a road that leads to Machaneng.”