“See this car?” Chobie said proudly, patting the side of the vehicle. “You got a car like this, Fanwell? No chance. You could have one, though. Easy, easy. You come in with me and you could have one of these. Turbo-charged. V-8. You name it. It’s there for the taking, Fanwell.” He paused, looking bemusedly at the young mechanic. “Of course, I forgot: you work at Tlokweng Road Something-or-other Motors.”

“Speedy Motors,” muttered Fanwell.

“Speedy not,” said Chobie. “Ha-ha. Speedy not. Tlokweng Road Old-Fashioned Manual Transmission Motors. That’s what that place should be called.”

Fanwell laughed weakly. Even a half-hearted laugh, though, felt like a betrayal. “It is a good garage.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s a good garage. Good for old ladies and their rubbish, one-horse-power cars. You fix donkey carts in that place, Fanwell?”

Fanwell looked away. “They do not bring them. They do not bring any donkey carts.”

Chobie patted him playfully on the shoulder. “Only joking, Fanwell. Anyway, let’s get in and go over to my place. I’ve got this yard, see, and the car I want you to fix up is there. Get in, my friend, get in.”

It was getting dark now. To the west, over the Kalahari, the sky was copper red, fading into pink and then into a colour that was somewhere between blue and white, the colour of emptiness; the lights of the town, bright pinpoints, were beginning to punctuate the dusk. Fanwell felt empty. He did not like Chobie; he had never really liked him. But he found it hard to resist the other young man’s enthusiastic banter, and there could be no harm, surely, in helping out with this business of his. The second-hand car trade was a notoriously tricky one, and Fanwell had no doubt that Chobie was at the questionable end of it. But if Chobie chose to mislead—and possibly even cheat—his customers, it was not really any of Fanwell’s business. Indeed, one might argue—and this line of argument was just occurring to Fanwell—that it would be positively better for him to work on Chobie’s cars; that way, the customers would have fewer problems and would get cars in better condition than would otherwise be the case. This work for Chobie, then, was virtually charitable, even if there was payment attached; that is how Fanwell looked at it, and that was how he was looking at things when Chobie turned the car into the gateway of a fenced-off storage yard. On the wall of this yard there was the wording, painted in high letters: Reliable Autos. We get you there.

“Get you where?” asked Fanwell.

Chobie smiled. “Where you want to get. That’s where everybody’s heading, after all. To where they want to get.”

Fanwell did not say anything. Chobie switched off the engine and gestured to the single car that the yard contained. “Isn’t that a beauty?” he asked.