She reached out to take his hand, and squeezed it. “You are a good husband,” she whispered. “You are a kind man.”

He looked proud. “It is no more than you deserve.”

He led her by the hand to stand beside the new van. She saw herself reflected in its gleaming surface; a white van would reflect nothing—the world vanished beside it—but in the blue of this van there was a traditionally built woman standing beside a man in khaki. Both were distorted, as in a mischievous hall of mirrors; the man had become squat, mostly trunk, with stunted limbs; the woman had become more traditionally built than ever—a wide expanse of woman, bulging like the continent of Africa itself.

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni reached forward and opened the driver's door. The old van's door had squeaked when opened; this one moved silently on well-greased hinges, revealing a pristine interior. It was hard to believe that the van was not brand-new, that it had not rolled fresh from a factory floor down in Port Elizabeth.

Everything was in place, and perfect. On the floor, which was covered with a dark rubber mat, specially cut squares of paper had been laid to protect the shoes of the driver; and on this paper was printed the motto of the garage that had supplied the van: At Your Service, Sir! Or Madam, thought Mma Ramotswe, although she understood that cars and vans were usually the preoccupation of men, while women thought of keeping families going, of the home, of making the world a bit more beautiful and comfortable, of the stemming of humanity's tears. Or some women did. And some men, too, did not think of cars.

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni gestured that Mma Ramotswe should get in. “It is all ready to drive,” he said. “We can go down the road and back again. You can get the feel of it, and I can help you with anything.”

Again she forced a smile. She tried to show her gratitude, for she did feel gratitude, profound gratitude, that she had a husband like this, who loved her so, he would seek out a special van for her and make a gift of it.

“It is very beautiful, Rra,” she said. “And this blue. It is like the sky.”

“That is why I chose it,” he said. “They had a red van, but I said no. You were not a person to drive a red vehicle. I told them that. Red vehicles are for young men.” He tossed his head in the direction of the two apprentices, who were watching from a distance. “You know how young men are.”

She knew. But she also remembered her visit to Fanwell's house, and learning that his entire salary kept that large family alive. She could not talk about this, though. The mission had been a clandestine one, so she could not say, Well, there are some young men who do good things—which is what she would have said otherwise.