it was: the billboard for his movie. As he’d insisted, the largest billboard on the Croisette. It mirrored the film’s namesake in the Louvre, a still showing the refugees clinging to a raft, really just an assemblage of debris from the sunken ship, hardly seaworthy, one man clearly dead, another half conscious, most strewn in poses of despair, but among them, one raising an arm high in the sky, head held high, and there at the far edge of the picture, the very, very top, the faintest outline of a ship. Salvation.
Toto, thought Sun, tremendously excited by it all, we’re not in Jakarta anymore.
Sun parked in the subterranean garage behind the Palais and took the escalator to the main building. He found the security office tucked away in the rear of the ground floor. Thor Axelsson, the film’s Icelandic director, had arrived before him, along with members of the production team and film crew. Sun was quick to note that some personages were missing.
“Where are the boys?” he asked the director, referring to the principal actors, “the four Mohammeds” who portrayed themselves in the film.
“On their way. A bit of a drive.”
Sun had arranged for the four African actors to stay at the Ibis Motor Lodge just outside of town. It wasn’t the Carlton, the Martinez, or the Du Cap, but as first-time actors they could hardly demand the finest lodging and amenities. The cost to transport them from their homes in North Africa and the Middle East was already astronomical. Further, he wasn’t sure they possessed the requisite social skills to stay for days on end at one of the five-star hostelries that lined the Croisette.
There was a last reason. He didn’t want any of his actors to get into trouble. Sun had the Indonesian’s instinctive misgivings about those with darker skin. He’d seen them on the film set, and their crude behavior had done little to change his opinions. Either way, it was easier to keep them outside of town and bring them in for the premiere and any other press functions. He didn’t want anything to spoil his big night. Samson Sun had every intention of returning to Cannes in the future. Next time, it would be with a film boasting big-name stars. A-listers only.
There was a commotion in the anteroom. The sound of furniture banging. Raised voices. Sun clutched his shirt to his throat as a pair of soldiers barreled into the room, followed closely by the four Mohammeds. Several uniformed policemen crowded in behind them.
“Please,” said Sun, presenting himself to one of the soldiers. “Is there a problem?”
“These men, they work with you?” The soldier was broad and red-faced and brutal, with a tattoo running up the side of his neck and arms as large as cudgels. His name tag read, GALLONDE.
Sun nodded furiously.
“None has brought with them proper identification.”
“That’s impossible,” said Sun. “We submitted copies of their identifications before traveling. All of them have been issued credentials.”
The four Africans showed the badges hanging from their necks.
Gallonde paid them little attention. “Every person visiting the festival is required to carry two forms of government-issued identification with them while inside the festival perimeter. The badges are not enough.”
Sun frowned. No one had ever asked him to show anything other than his festival credentials.
Gallonde picked out Mohammed from Tunis and Mohammed from Algiers, grabbing them by the collars. “These gentlemen have only their passports. Both will expire in less than six months. This, too, is a violation. They should not have been allowed into the country.” The soldier then pointed to Mohammed from Marrakech and Mohammed from Alexandria. “And these two only have their refugee cards. No passport. The photographs are insufficient.” He exhaled angrily. “They could be anybody!”
“Officer Gallonde,” Sun began, in crisis mode, “I thank you for your diligence, your courtesy, and your professionalism. Let me assure you that these men are who they appear to be. You have my word.”
“They are actors? Really?” Gallonde appeared unconvinced.
“The stars of my film.”
Gallonde didn’t like it, not one bit.
Thor Axelsson, the director, stepped forward to attest to the fact. “We worked together many months. They are who they say.”
Just then the door to the office flew open. In rushed Jean Renaud, the festival director, in a state. He made his way to Gallonde and rattled off a barrage of questions, his indignation apparent, accosting the soldiers and policemen before they could respond.
Turning to Samson, he offered a heartfelt apology, on behalf of himself, the festival, and the