The widow Penshaws met her at the bottom of the stair well.
“Mother,” gasped Matilda. Matilda always gasped when she saw something unexpected. “What on earth are you doing up?”
The widow Penshaws smiled somewhat toothlessly, having neglected to put in both her uppers and lowers this early in the morning. “I’m fixing breakfast, of course…”
Then the widow Penshaws told Matilda that she could never hope to sneak about the house without her mother’s knowing about it, and that even if she were going out in response to one of those foolish ads in the magazines, she would still need a good breakfast to start with, such as only mother could cook. Matilda moodily thanked the widow Penshaws.
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 that 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—”
Matilda kept the alarm from creeping into her voice. She muttered an oh under her breath and took out the ad. This she showed to the stereotype, and he scratched his bald head. Then he told Matilda, almost happily, that he was sorry he couldn’t help her. He grudgingly suggested that if it really was important, she might check with the police.
Matilda did, only they didn’t know any Haron Gorka, either. It turned out that no one did. Matilda tried the general store, the fire department, the city hall, the high school, all three Cedar Falls gas stations, the livery stable, and half a dozen private dwellings at random. As far as the gentry of Cedar Falls were concerned, Haron Gorka did not exist.
Matilda felt bad, but she had no intention of returning home this early. If she could not find Haron Gorka, that was one thing; but she knew that she’d rather not return home and face the widow Penshaws, at least not for a while yet. The widow Penshaws meant well, but she liked to analyze other people’s mistakes, especially Matilda’s.
Accordingly, Matilda trudged wearily toward Cedar Falls’ small and unimposing library. She could release some of her pent-up aggression by browsing through the dusty stacks.
This she did, but it was unrewarding. Cedar Falls had what might be called a microscopic library, and Matilda thought that if this small building were filled with microfilm rather than books, the library still would be lacking. Hence she retraced her steps and nodded to the old librarian as she passed.
Then Matilda frowned. Twenty years from now, this could be Matilda Penshaws—complete with plain gray dress, rimless spectacles, gray hair, suspicious eyes, and a broomstick figure…
On the other hand—why not? Why couldn’t the librarian help her? Why hadn’t she thought of it before? Certainly a man as well educated as Haron Gorka would be an avid reader, and unless he had a permanent residence here in Cedar Falls, one couldn’t expect that he’d have his own library with him. This being the case, a third-rate collection of books was far better than no collection at all, and perhaps the librarian would know Mr. Haron Gorka.
Matilda cleared her throat. “Pardon me,” she began. “I’m looking for—”
“Haron Gorka.” The librarian nodded.
“How on earth did you know?”
“That’s easy. You’re the sixth young woman who came here inquiring about that man today. Six of you—five others in the morning, and now you in the afternoon. I never did trust this Mr. Gorka…”
Matilda jumped as if she had been struck strategically from the rear. “You know him? You know Haron Gorka?”
“Certainly. Of course I know him. He’s our steadiest reader here at the library. Not a week goes by that he doesn’t take out three, four books. Scholarly gentleman, but not without charm. If I were twenty years younger—”
Matilda thought a little flattery might be effective. “Only ten,” she assured the librarian. “Ten years would be more than sufficient, I’m sure.”
“Are you? Well. Well, well.” The librarian did something with the back of her hair, but it looked just as it had before. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe you’re right, at that.” Then she sighed. “But I guess a miss is as good as a mile.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean anyone would like to correspond with Haron Gorka. Or to know him well. To be considered his friend. Haron Gorka…”
The librarian seemed about to soar off into the air someplace, and if five women had been here first, Matilda was now definitely in a hurry.
“Um, where can I find Mr. Gorka?”
“I’m not supposed to do this, you know. We’re not permitted to give the addresses of any of our people. Against regulations, my dear.”
“What about the other five women?”
“They convinced me that I ought to give them his address.”
Matilda reached into her pocketbook and withdrew a five-dollar bill.
“Was this the way?” she demanded. Matilda was not very good at this sort of thing.
The librarian shook her head.
Matilda nodded shrewdly and added a twin brother to the bill in her hand. “Then is this better?”
“That’s worse. I wouldn’t take your money—”
“Sorry. What, then?”
“If I can’t enjoy an association with Haron Gorka directly, I still could get the vicarious pleasure of your contact with him. Report to me faithfully, and you’ll get his address. That’s what the other five will do, and with half a dozen of you, I’ll get an over-all picture. Each one of you will tell me about Haron Gorka, sparing no details. You each have a distinct personality, of course, and it will color each picture considerably. But with six of you reporting, I should receive my share of vicarious enjoyment. Is it—ah—a deal?”
Matilda assured her that it was and, breathlessly, wrote down the address. She thanked the librarian and then went out to her car, whistling to herself.
Haron Gorka lived in what could have been an agrarian estate, except that the land no longer was being tilled. The house itself had fallen to ruin. This surprised Matilda, but she did not let it keep her spirits in check. Haron Gorka, the man, was what counted, and the librarian’s account of him certainly had been glowing enough. Perhaps he was too busy with his cultural pursuits to pay any real attention to his dwelling. That was it, of course: the conspicuous show of wealth or personal industry meant nothing at all to Haron Gorka. Matilda liked him all the more for it.
There were five cars parked in the long driveway, and now Matilda’s made the sixth. In spite of herself, she smiled. She had not been the only one with the idea of visiting Haron Gorka in person. With half a dozen of them there, the laggards who resorted to posting letters would be left far behind. Matilda congratulated herself for what she thought had been her ingenuity and which now turned out to be something that she had in common with five other women. You live and learn, thought Matilda. And then, quite annoyedly, she berated herself for not having been the first. Perhaps the other five all were satisfactory; perhaps she wouldn’t be needed; perhaps she was too late…