Driving the fifty miles to Cedar Falls in a little less than an hour, Matilda hummed Mendelssohn's Wedding March all the way. It was her favorite piece of music. Once, she told herself: Matilda Penshaws, you are being premature about the whole thing. But she laughed and thought that if she was, she was, and, meanwhile, she could only get to Cedar Falls and find out.
And so she got there.
The man in the wire cage at the Cedar Falls post office was a stereotype. Matilda always liked to think in terms of stereotypes. This man was small, roundish, florid of face, with a pair of eyeglasses which hung too far down on his nose. Matilda knew he would peer over his glasses and answer questions grudgingly.
"Hello," said Matilda.
The stereotype grunted and peered at her over his glasses. Matilda asked him where she could find Haron Gorka.
"What?"
"I said, where can I find Haron Gorka?"
"Is that in the United States?"
"It's not a that; it's a he. Where can I find him? Where does he live? What's the quickest way to get there?"
The stereotype pushed up his glasses and looked at her squarely. "Now take it easy, ma'am. First place, I don't know any Haron Gorka—"