I had been speaking to Salman Rushdie for about an hour, in a bookshop café in New York, when a burly man in a baseball cap approached him.
“Are you Salman Rushdie?” he asked loudly.
“Yes,” said Rushdie – who, it’s true, was instantly recognisable. Over the years everything has become a little paler (greyer beard, lighter glasses) but the general outline is the same, and his gaze still contains a mixture of somnolent scepticism and impish joviality.
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“Are you Salman Rushdie?” he asked loudly.
“Yes,” said Rushdie – who, it’s true, was instantly recognisable. Over the years everything has become a little paler (greyer beard, lighter glasses) but the general outline is the same, and his gaze still contains a mixture of somnolent scepticism and impish joviality.
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