Garbo’s Faces — Part Twenty-Four
Letters
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Letters
A few days later, it’s early December now, Harriet went back to Sweden. She called me from New York just before she left, telling me that she was fine, considering, but that she really needed a Swedish Christmas to get over things, the many strange things, she said. And, no, unfortunately she would not stop over in London. Her connection for Stockholm was Amsterdam. She would call me from Sweden.
“Where are you staying?” I asked.
“With Kerstin.”
“Kirsten?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “Kerstin. Kerstin Bernadotte.” She pronounced the name like Chersteen, unfamiliar to me.
“I don’t know her,” I said.
“Carl Johan and Kerstin are friends of the Wachtmeisters,” she said. “They’re going to let me stay in their apartment.”
“How do I reach you?”
“I’ll call you from there,” she said again, not really answering my question.
Knowing how distraught she still must be, I didn’t want to prod further, so instead I wished her a pleasant journey and told her to be sure to call me. I did not want her to disappear on me again.
