“Not bad at all,” Simon agreed.
As they admired the view, Samson Sun entered the room with an audible clearing of his throat. He was dressed for the premiere in an ivory tuxedo, a black silk scarf draped around his neck. “Excuse me,” he said. “You can’t barge into someone’s home without their permission.”
Simon turned. “Hello, Samson.”
Samson Sun didn’t miss a beat. “Riske. Where’s my painting?”
“It’s not yours. It belongs to the Rijksmuseum of Amsterdam.”
Sun bristled at the suggestion, then seemed to think the better of it. “At least I know it was authentic,” he said, his good-natured self once again.
“Don’t be too sure,” said Simon.
“Back for another? Look around…No Monets. I bought the place with all furnishings. If you see something else that’s been stolen, help yourself.” He took note of London. “Who’s your friend?”
Simon introduced them, leaving out that she was a reporter for theFinancial Times. Sun took to her, as he did to all beautiful women, gripping her hand too long, asking her why in the world she was with Simon when she could be staying at his, Samson Sun’s, villa. The Sun charm offensive.
“I’m not here to talk about art,” said Simon. “I’m here to take you up on your invitation to the premiere.”
“Too late. All the tickets are spoken for.”
“Two just came free.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Hadrian Lester and his wife won’t be attending,” said London.
“Who?”
“Come off it, Samson.” Simon stared at the man. “Didn’t your aunt tell you? Lester’s dead.”
“Aunt Nadya?” said Sun tentatively. How did Riske know her? “She might have mentioned something.” He took a few steps and fell into an oversized armchair. “What are you here to talk about, then, if it isn’t art?”
“Like I said, your movie.”
“What about it?” asked Sun, already softening, gesturing for them to take a seat on the sofa across the room.
“We looked at your press conference online,” said London. “It’s your first film. Where did you get the idea?”
“The screenwriter. M. L. De Winter. She approached me—a friend of a friend—hoping to make it as a documentary. I suggested it might work better as a drama.”
“Tell the story on a more personal level,” said Simon.
“Yes,” said Sun, smiling a bit. “Indeed. That’s the beauty of the film, of film itself. It allows the viewer a glimpse into a character’s heart, as well as their mind.”
“So the film is sympathetic to the refugees’ situation.”
“Asylum seekers,” said Sun. “Fleeing from oppressive regimes. How could it not be?”
“And your aunt was okay with this?”
“My aunt? What does she have to do with my film?”
“I think we both know her political views.”
“She can be a bit conservative,” said Sun. “So what?”
“I’m just wondering,” Simon went on, “since Future Indonesia is a majority shareholder in your company, Black Marble Productions, and since your aunt is not only Indonesia’s minister of finance but also manager of its sovereign wealth funds, why she would agree to finance a motion picture that lionizes the plight of individuals with whom she has a fundamental disagreement. The money to finance your motion picture,The Raft of the Medusa,it came from your aunt.”
