There is something unnerving about saying "May I speak to Mr. Veloso, please" when you know that the voice at the other end of the line belongs to Caetano Veloso himself.
Days have been spent in ecstasy and fear in anticipation of this moment and now, 20 minutes past our appointment, it's come at last.
Veloso, surrendering to traffic caused by a sudden summer storm, is not at his manager's office as planned but at his home in Rio de Janeiro. A bad connection and this decrepit speakerphone only underline the distance between us, and as I nervously shout "Hallo! Hallo!" in unconscious imitation of his manager's secretary who helped me earlier, I feel more than ever that Veloso is way out of my reach. Then:
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