Last Wednesday, just as a thousand people left the prayer service for Zaha Hadid at London’s Grand Mosque, it started to rain—appropriately enough at a dramatic diagonal—and not long after, as her family and friends motored in a caravan of buses to a cemetery in Surrey, the clouds parted and a double rainbow appeared. There, after six of her friends and office colleagues lowered her casket, located between the graves of her father, Mohammed, and her brother, Fulath, it hailed, through the sunshine.

The inexplicable weather, four seasons in one afternoon, was Shakespearean, as in King Lear, somehow sympathizing with Zaha’s tragic and unexpected death at 65 in Miami on March 31--and somehow acknowledging the unusual person that everyone, even people who didn’t know her, called just Zaha.