"I'm trying to acquire a film by the New Zealand director Jane Campion called 'Sweetie'. It's a black comedy, very small in scale, mainly exploring family dysfunction and female sexual psychology. Still, the director has strong ideas about score and composition, and, most importantly, the picture is fully realised, the story flows so smoothly that even viewers who don't care for art-house films won't find it dull".
The hilltop villa in Le Cannet.
When Ira Deutchman and Robert Rehme arrived, everyone moved into the dining room to talk over recent events while lunch was served.
The main-competition line-up for this year's Cannes had just been finalised, and Simon had got hold of the list at once. Besides 'My Left Foot' and 'Sex, lies, and videotape', the two titles that caught his eye were Giuseppe Tornatore's 'Cinema Paradiso' and Jane Campion's 'Sweetie'.
Cinema Paradiso needed no introduction, it had won the Oscar for Best Foreign Language Film in 1990 in the original timeline.
As for 'Sweetie', Simon hadn't seen it; what interested him was the director. Jane Campion's 'The Piano' was one of his all-time favourite films, though that 1993 release hadn't appeared yet in this timeline.
For this festival Simon's plan was to let Ira Deutchman operate freely and intervene only if the outcome demanded it.
Hearing that Deutschman had also set his sights on Campion's film pleased Simon, especially the producer's concern for its commercial potential. Treating an art film like a commercial property was exactly the philosophy Simon had been drumming into him.
Inside the dining room.
When Deutschman finished, Simon asked, "Can you get a print? I'd like to watch it myself in the next few days".
Ira Deutchman thought for a moment and nodded. "I'll try; shouldn't be a problem".
A servant brought in the next course.
Conversation paused briefly. Simon picked up his cutlery, tasted the beef braised in red wine, and asked, "Anything else worth looking at besides 'Sweetie'?"
"Bertrand Blier's 'Too Beautiful for You', Giuseppe Tornatore's 'Cinema Paradiso' and Denys Arcand's 'Jesus of Montreal' are all hot contenders, along with our 'My Left Foot' and Columbia's 'Sex, lies, and videotape'. The trouble is, half the North-American buyers are circling Cannes this year, especially for the titles we want. I'm not sure we can secure any of them".
Simon's 1987 'Run Lola Run' had taken the Grand Jury Prize at Sundance and finished the year as top box-office hit; 1988's 'Pulp Fiction' had won the Palme d'Or at Cannes and had come close to repeating the feat. Though neither success was directly tied to festival laurels, both had made distributors worldwide zero in on festival prize-winners.
Daenerys Entertainment's string of breakout releases last year had the whole of Hollywood tracking the company's every move. The scrutiny had already cost Daenerys several projects, including 'Sex, lies, and videotape', and it showed no sign of letting up.
After a moment Simon said, "Ira, if you can't land the films, try locking in the directors' next projects early, that should be easier".
Ira Deutchman agreed. "And I'm still using the 'take-it-or-leave-it' tactic. Highgate Film won't get into a bidding war unless they have to".
Simon nodded, then turned to Robert Rehme. "Bob, how about you?"
"I've been building ties with distributors in Eastern Europe. The political situation's volatile, but the market's opened up", Rehme replied, half-complaining, "Simon, I've made more international trips these past few months than in the previous ten years. After Cannes I'm off to Brazil next week, no exec in Hollywood's racking up more miles".
Simon glanced at him and smiled. "We're in rapid-expansion mode; we're all busy. Get through the next two years and it'll ease up. If you're not happy with the company jet, I can authorise a better charter".
Robert Rehme gave a polite laugh, disappointed that his hint had missed its mark, and smoothly changed the subject.
Lunch ended at one o'clock.
Ira Deutchman and Robert Rehme left for their hotel; Sophia departed to make final preparations for tonight's Gucci event.
With everyone occupied and the staff dismissed, the villa fell quiet.
Simon had no afternoon meetings. Enjoying the rare break, he stayed in the upstairs lounge paging through Jennifer's latest dossier on computer networking while his Female Assistant downstairs revised his coming schedule.
A little past two.
Mediterranean afternoon light poured through the open loggia. Simon lay back on a sun-lounger, most of his body in the sun, reading a paper on the http protocol, when Nastassja Kinski slipped in behind him.
Seeing the woman crouch beside his lounger in a red slip-dress, watching him like a cat, he asked, "Going out?"
"The film I'm in, Torrents of Spring, screens at three".
Simon nodded. "Mm".
He knew the picture. Valeria Golino had almost taken the female lead in Jerzy Skolimowski's long-gestating Polish project before choosing Catwoman instead. The premiere had been on the fifteenth; though Skolimowski had prepared for years, critics were lukewarm, far cooler than for his earlier work.
Nastassja Kinski, stung by his indifference, said flatly, "Come with me".
Simon had already scanned the afternoon schedule and found nothing that interested him, which was why he'd stayed home. "Not going", he replied.
She tilted her head, moved closer, and said, "I'll tell Jennifer you slept with me".
Simon turned a page. "Do that and only one thing happens: either I throw you out or Jennifer does".
She frowned slightly, then leaned nearer. "All right, I won't tell".
Simon felt her lips almost brush his ear. He pinched her chin. "Mission accomplished for whoever sent you. Now keep me company in the sun".
Given her aloof and solitary nature, she would never have invited Simon to watch a film, let alone one she starred in, unless someone had asked her to. Just like last year's main-competition vote: Simon had assumed she'd back 'Pulp Fiction', but she simply followed her own whim.
Nastassja Kinski gave a soft hum, shook off Simon's hand, and instead of moving to the nearby lounger she straddled him, lowered her head to his chest, found a comfortable spot, and settled there with eyes half-closed.
The soft, cool press of her body blocked the warm sun. Simon merely smiled. "Sleep. I'll take you to a party tonight".
With that he returned to the paper in his hand.
After only a moment's stillness she lifted her head again, tugged at the button in the centre of his shirt. "Uncomfortable".
Simon reached over, hooked two fingers under the button and flicked; the white disk snapped free and flew off.
Nastassja Kinski watched it land, glanced up at Simon, then contentedly pressed herself to him once more.
When she woke, he was no longer beside her.
The sun was setting.
She lay exactly as she had fallen asleep, curled on the lounger, breathing in a presence both familiar and foreign. Her gaze searched, found the lost button.
A faint smile curved her lips.
A year in this place had given her an ease she had never known in her life.
A life of comfort without having to give anything in return.
It had been, perhaps, the secret wish she had carried since childhood.
Yet when she realised he would soon reappear, she understood she could not pay nothing.
Sophia Fessey, the woman who managed his properties, had warned her: if she found a new boyfriend she would have to move out, and under no circumstances bring another man here.
Right after the divorce she had entertained no such thoughts.
Later, accustomed to this life, the Housekeeper's caution had quietly become her chain.
She had always lived as she pleased, yet now she knew that breaking the rule meant leaving.
She did not want to leave.
He had, after all, walked back into her life.
Plenty of men coveted her body; she had assumed he was no different.
After the first unease she could not help testing him.
Now she knew: he was no exception.
Only worse.
Lovers usually feel possessive, jealous; he showed none of that, yet claimed her as a matter of course. If one day she vanished, he would probably think it natural, might simply give that indifferent smile.
Like…a house-cat that wandered off.
Cats do get lost so easily.
The sun slipped beneath the horizon, the light dimmed, and the man's scent on the evening breeze slowly faded, yet she still lingered.
Footsteps sounded.
Jennifer walked in. Seeing Nastassja Kinski languidly stretched on the sun-lounger, eyes drowsy, flaxen hair tumbled, dress strap slipping from her shoulder, looking freshly tousled, she frowned, voice cooling: "Miss Kinski, we leave for the Gucci party shortly; you should change".
She rose and followed her Female Assistant downstairs; Gucci had sent a gown and a stylist.
She had thought to be his companion tonight.
But he had already left.
Disappointment stung; she toyed with staying away, yet let the stylist work his craft and rode to the Carlton InterContinental in Cannes.
Compared with the Oscar-night attempt, this 'Gucci Evening' in Cannes was far grander. Over two hundred film and fashion luminaries from Europe and North America lent the Carlton's red carpet a glare rivalling the festival's opening. Media from across the world swarmed.
Though tomorrow's headlines would splinter as stars dispersed, the words Gucci Evening would surface everywhere, exactly the point.
When the party began at eight Sophia was still fretting over every detail.
If the evening ran smoothly it would be flawless; a glitch might bring more press, but that was the last thing she wanted.
Simon served as the event's mascot; Angela Ahrendts had said plainly at lunch that many celebrities came only because of him, and he fulfilled his mascot duties to the letter.
Jennifer stayed at his side. Before she reached France, Sophia had sent a long guest list, asking the Female Assistant to Remind Simon whom he must personally greet.
She had arrived annoyed by the sight of Nastassja Kinski, yet weaving through the crowd she heard him switch languages effortlessly, and even accustomed to his miracles she felt fresh surprise.
English was basic, French unsurprising, Spanish still common, then German, Russian, Chinese, Japanese, Italian, Hebrew… Are you the one who slipped through God's net when He scrambled the tower of Babel?
"I've looked over the material for 'Cinema Paradiso', Torn. Daenerys Entertainment is very interested; you can set a time with Ira to talk about your next film".
"That film's failure wasn't your fault, Madame Adjani… Of course, if the chance arises, I'd love to work with you".
"It's all right, Steve, you're the director, not the investor".
"Cindy, Helena, what a surprise to see you in Cannes".
"Yes, I speak a little Russian; I'd love to visit Moscow".
After an hour of hand-shaking the scheduled fashion show began and Simon finally slipped into a quiet corner.
Instead of joining the crowd at the runway, he pulled Jennifer aside and murmured, "Remind Ira to meet Giuseppe Tornatore tomorrow".
Jennifer nodded, jotting it down, then glanced up. "And Remind Deutchman to see Isabelle Adjani?"
Simon blinked, grinned. "I was only being polite".
A public show of jealousy; the Female Assistant lowered her head, pretending to write, and muttered, "Didn't look like politeness to me".