Robert Hargrove’s Zurich residence was not what I expected.
I had constructed something in my imagination along the lines of the Hargrove estate, all glass and deliberate statement, the architecture of power made residential. What we arrived at was a townhouse on a quiet street two blocks from the lake, old stone and shuttered windows and window boxes that had been tended carefully and recently, the kind of residence that belonged to someone who had stopped needing to announce himself.
He opened the door himself.
This also surprised me. The man I had met at the estate had staff arranged around him with the ease of someone accustomed to being received. This Robert was in dark trousers and a grey sweater and looked, for the first time in my experience of him, like a man of seventy one rat
