The news that Pulp Fiction had won the Palme d'Or sent waves through the entire city of Cannes. Media reporters scattered across the town converged on the Palais des Festivals.
Due to the time difference, it was still daytime on both the East and West Coasts of North America. When the news reached them, it caused another stir. Many evening newspapers hastily rearranged their front pages, pushing the story of Pulp Fiction's win to the headlines.
After the ceremony, the jury rushed to the closing press conference, where, as usual, they would spend considerable time explaining the reasoning behind the awards. Simon and the other winners were similarly arranged in a separate press hall to face journalists.
After posing for photos holding the box containing the Palme d'Or, they took their seats on the stage for the Q&A session. Instantly, every reporter in the hall raised their hand.
The moderator selected a tall, dark-haired journalist. Without waiting for the microphone, the man asked directly, "Simon, I'm Mark Winster from The Hollywood Reporter. As the youngest Palme d'Or winner in the history of the Cannes Film Festival, how does it feel right now?"
A smile graced Simon's face. "Thrilled, and deeply honored. This is a moment in my life I'll always remember."
After this warm-up question, Mark Winster continued, "I heard you're preparing Batman, Simon. Will you continue making distinctive, genre-defying films like Run Lola Run and Pulp Fiction in the future?"
Simon nodded without hesitation. "Of course. In fact, I have many more very interesting ideas in my head. It would be a real shame not to bring them to the big screen. However, I believe the planned Batman will also be an outstanding film, in no way inferior to Run Lola Run or Pulp Fiction."
Another reporter asked, "Simon, I'm Peter Richardson from Screen. You just mentioned having many other ideas. Could you give us an example?"
"I'm afraid not," Simon declined with a laugh. "If I tell everyone now, there'll be no sense of freshness in the future."
Amidst light chuckles from the crowd, another reporter was chosen. Taking the microphone, he looked toward the stage and said, "Simon, I'm Arthur Brady from the UK's The Guardian. Compared to A Short Film About Killing's exploration of the meaning of life and A World Apart's focus on racial issues, do you think a film like Pulp Fiction, filled with profanity, violence, and drugs, truly deserves the Palme d'Or in your hands?"
For most years, the Palme d'Or winner at Cannes faces various criticisms and doubts.
Simon was well aware he couldn't escape this. Hearing the question from The Guardian reporter, he wasn't surprised in the least and affirmed without hesitation, "I believe my film deserves this award."
Having said that, without waiting for a follow-up, Simon proactively explained, "First, Arthur, you need to understand something: the merit of a film itself is independent of its stance. The criteria for judgment should encompass all aspects of it as a film—screenplay, cinematography, lighting, editing, and so on. I don't deny the depth in the themes of A Short Film About Killing and A World Apart, but in terms of the overall quality of a film, I'm confident Pulp Fiction surpasses them."
Arthur Brady pressed on, "According to your view, Simon, should film festivals completely disregard a film's thematic stance and judge it from a completely neutral position?"
Simon shook his head. "That's an extreme argument you've imagined. Film is essentially a vehicle for ideas. Filmmakers use it to express what they want to express, and audiences are free to choose what they want to see. As an important bridge facilitating communication between the two, film festivals should be inclusive. Without crossing certain lines, they need to allow films of various genres, subjects, and stances onto their platform and give them appropriate recognition. As for Pulp Fiction, I didn't intentionally glorify bloodshed and violence. At its core, this film is a surreal and absurd dark comedy."
As Simon finished speaking, the reporters below showed thoughtful expressions.
Seeing this, the host swiftly chose the next questioner, not giving The Guardian reporter another chance to cause trouble.
Only a minority of media outlets could conduct interviews inside the Palais des Festivals. After the brief press conference ended, Simon's group was immediately surrounded by a swarm of journalists as soon as they left the building. Amidst a dense barrage of camera flashes, reporters with various accents loudly shouted their questions.
They still had the official celebratory banquet to attend.
Simon didn't expend further energy dealing with the surrounding reporters. Shielding Janet beside him, he pushed through the crowd, got into a waiting car by the roadside, and quickly drove away.
By the time the celebratory banquet ended, it was late at night. Starting the next day, more media reactions to Pulp Fiction winning the Palme d'Or spread further. Simon, a twenty-year-old winner, likely the youngest Palme d'Or recipient whose record would be hard to break in the future, naturally sparked considerable discussion and controversy.
History has always belonged to the victors.
Just like the 1999 Oscars in the original timeline, Shakespeare in Love, which won Best Picture and Best Director, carried immense controversy, but it was ultimately the one remembered. Of the other four nominated films, aside from Spielberg's Saving Private Ryan, few left a lasting impression on audiences.
Regarding Pulp Fiction's award, Simon was certain of two things: the film's quality was sufficient to deserve the award, and there would be no behind-the-scenes scandals like bribery or vote-buying. Therefore, the Palme d'Or in his hands was beyond doubt.
That was enough.
Staying in Cannes for one more day due to various matters, early on the morning of May 25th, as everyone was packing to leave, a sedan drove into the mansion's grounds and stopped at the villa's entrance. Nastassja Kinski still had that nonchalant air about her, lazily stepping out of the car. The driver unloaded three extra-large suitcases from the trunk before driving off.
As a member of the main competition jury, the film festival had originally arranged a hotel for Nastassja Kinski.
Now, that arrangement had clearly ended. This was actually the reason behind her bold request to borrow Simon's house on the awards ceremony stage.
Simon and Janet went out to greet her. Seeing Janet, Nastassja Kinski perked up slightly, embracing her in greeting. Then she glanced at Simon and her several large suitcases.
Simon remained unmoved, pretending not to understand her hint.
Janet smiled and looped her arm through Nastassja Kinski's, leading her into the villa. "Come on, I'll have Neil help you with your luggage later. You can stay in our master bedroom."
Simon followed the two women inside. In the living room, Jennifer and the real estate agent from before, Sophia Fache, came over to greet Nastassja Kinski. Since Simon and Janet were leaving Cannes, the house still needed to be entrusted to Sophia Fache's care.
Upon Sophia Fache's self-introduction, Nastassja Kinski spoke quite bluntly, "Ms. Fache, could you hire a housekeeper for me? Also a chef, maids, and a driver."
Sophia Fache, not entirely understanding the situation, simply nodded. "Of course, Ms. Kinski. I'll bring some candidate lists tomorrow for you to personally interview. Is there anything else you need?"
"Not for now," Nastassja Kinski shook her head, then calmly gestured towards Simon and added, "Oh, and send the bills to Westeros."
Sophia Fache paused for a moment, instinctively glancing at Janet before looking at Simon.
Feeling Sophia Fache's ambiguous gaze, Simon slumped back on the sofa with a hint of resignation. "They all have to be women."
Sophia Fache smiled, pressing her lips together. "No problem."
Janet and Jennifer also smiled and went back to packing. Nastassja Kinski followed them.
Simon had just picked up that day's newspaper when he noticed Sophia Fache still standing there. He couldn't help but give her a few appraising looks. This woman, probably in her thirties and exuding a mature charm, wore a white blouse and a black pencil skirt today, with low heels, looking very pleasing to the eye.
Noticing Simon's gaze, Sophia Fache stood still. After a moment, she asked, "Mr. Westeros, is there something else?"
Simon put down the newspaper and asked directly, "Sophia, how much have you earned in total over the past three years?"
Sophia Fache thought for a moment. "Pre-tax, roughly 1.2 million francs."
"Are you married?"
Without any coyness, Sophia Fache replied, "I was. Then divorced. I have two children. I have custody."
"Then, would you like to come work for me? I'll pay you 1.2 million francs a year," Simon decisively set the newspaper aside, looking at the woman. "As for the employment period, it lasts until your next marriage."
Sophia Fache looked at Simon. "What would you have me do?"
"Housekeeper," Simon said. "Primarily responsible for managing my European properties."
Sophia Fache said, "Mr. Westeros, you don't seem to have many properties in Europe."
"So, your other task is to continue helping me acquire properties until Westeros holdings are spread across every major city in Europe."
A flicker of surprise passed through Sophia Fache's eyes. "That would cost a lot of money."
Simon said, "Making money is my concern."
Sophia Fache considered this, then said, "In that case, Mr. Westeros, 1.2 million francs a year isn't enough."
Simon shrugged. "If you want more, you'll need to prove it to me first."
Without much further hesitation, Sophia Fache asked, "What should I do next?"
"Draft an employment contract yourself and bring it to me," Simon took out his checkbook, quickly signed a check, and handed it to Sophia Fache. "This is your first year's salary. What it will be next year depends on your performance. You know what I want. You give me your loyalty, I'll give you everything you desire. You deceive me, I'll leave you with nothing."
Sophia Fache carefully took the check and put it away. "You certainly won't be disappointed, Mr. Westeros."
Simon nodded, gesturing towards the upstairs. "No need for a separate housekeeper then. You'll be the housekeeper from now on. Keep an eye on this place for me, and keep an eye on that woman too."
Sophia Fache nodded. "I understand."
Simon leaned back on the sofa and picked up the newspaper again. Noticing the woman still hadn't left, he asked, "Is there something else?"
"Mr. Westeros, you just said," Sophia Fache hesitated slightly, "the employment period lasts until my next marriage."
Simon shrugged. "Yes, quite clearly. This is obviously a case of male possessiveness at play."
"Heh, Mr. Westeros, you're quite blunt."
"So?"
"I'm a normal woman, Mr. Westeros. I already have a decent boyfriend. He's..."
"Cohabitation counts too."
"Hmm?"
"I mean, if you plan on a long-term cohabitation with him, that counts as marriage. Then you'd lose your job."
Sophia Fache pressed her lips together. "You really are a tyrannical boss."
Simon said, "Obviously, a 1.2 million franc annual salary isn't that easy to earn. You could also try to deceive me."
"And if I'm discovered?"
"I just said, I might spend 12 million francs to make sure you understand you shouldn't have deceived me." Simon looked up at the woman again. "So, do you still want this job?"
Sophia Fache glanced at the check in her hand once more. "In that case, 1.2 million francs really isn't that much."
1.2 million francs, at the current exchange rate, was roughly $180,000. Equivalent to the annual salary of a vice-president level executive at a Fortune 500 company. In the 1980s, that level of income was undoubtedly considered high-earning.
Simon had noticed the clear hints in Sophia Fache's words and demeanor since her arrival today. Combined with his own immediate need, he had issued this job offer on the spot. Hearing her comment, he said, "Sophia, it's like raising cats. You can't always feed them until they're completely full. That way, the cats maintain a bit more dependence on their owner."
"Mr. Westeros, do you think women are cats?"
"Yes. As one of the most fickle and difficult-to-tame creatures in the world, I never set my expectations too high for you," Simon nodded. "So, the first year is only 1.2 million francs. However, as long as you satisfy me, perhaps in 10 years, you could be earning 12 million francs, or even 12 million dollars."
"Is that a promise?"
"Yes."
"Suddenly, Mr. Westeros, given your current spending pace, I'm thinking you might not be able to afford that compensation in ten years."
"That's not a problem, because before that, you might have already decisively left."
Sophia Fache hesitated this time before saying, "I wouldn't do that."
"I'm glad to hear you say that, but I still can't give you a raise immediately."
A knowing, attractive smile appeared on Sophia Fache's face. "What if I want to resign someday?"
"You'll likely be managing a very substantial amount of assets soon. So, give me six months' notice."
Sophia Fache nodded. "Then, Mr. Westeros, I have no further questions."
"But I have one more," Simon appraised the woman before him again. "I need to know what kind of woman I'm hiring."
Sophia Fache nodded. "I'll prepare a resume for you."
"No, I mean, do you have any past experiences you absolutely wouldn't want outsiders to know about?"
Sophia Fache thought for a moment, then shook her head. "No."
"In that case, I'll hire a detective agency to compile a 'resume' about you. I hope you don't mind."
Sophia Fache said, "I mind very much."
Simon said, "You can refuse. I can only say that's regrettable. But I must ensure the person I hire has no history of violence, mental illness, criminal record, and so on."
Sophia Fache looked at Simon with a strange expression. "Violence and mental illness?"
Simon was momentarily taken aback, then laughed and spread his hands. "Exactly. This might also be a very dangerous job. You should consider it more carefully. Tell me your decision before I leave Cannes."
"Mr. Westeros, but you're leaving in an hour."
"Opportunities are fleeting."
Sophia Fache hesitated briefly, then said, "I'll draft my employment contract as soon as possible."
Simon snapped his fingers. "A wise choice."