Garbo’s Faces — Part Twenty-Three
Departure and Visit
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I got the call the following Friday, a little over a week later. It was the 24th of November, a day clearly marked with purple crayon on my wall calendar. And right next to this date: “Arnby Presentation,” in the same purple crayon.
Mr. Arnby was one of my main clients, a textile magnate from Manchester wanting a Frank Lloyd Wrightish cottage springing up from the ground in Essex by his very own stretch of river. I had finished it, all details worked out and organically supporting each other. I was pleased with it, especially with its not so very Frank Lloyd Wrightishness. I was about to leave for the office, and the presentation, when the phone rang.
It was Harriet, too distraught to speak coherently.
“Harriet?” I said.
The handset changed hands at the other end and Mrs. Renshaw came on the line.
“There’s nothing we can do,” she said, and I then knew that Attra was dying.
“What happened?” I asked.
“I am not sure,” she said. “I think it is his liver, or kidneys.”
“But they were okay,” I protested.
