"So when Mr. Isuzu told me that you'd be willing to come here and allay our fears," Mayor Cloves went on, "I said, well, that might just do it."
At that moment the press secretary put his head in the door. "They're here, Mr. Mayor."
"Wonderful," said Mayor Cloves. "Come, let's go meet them."
Bronzini caught Isuzu's arm on the way out. "What is this?" he hissed.
"Quiet. This wirr be over soon."
"Oh," said Bronzini when he saw the news crews setting up their video cameras. Newspaper reporters stood with pencils poised over notepads.
"Thank you for coming, ladies and gentlemen of the press," the mayor said in a booming voice. "As you can see, the illustrious Bartholomew Bronzini, star of such modern classics as Conan the Mendicant, is in my office today. Bart's come to Yuma to ask me personally for permission to film his next blockbuster. With him is Mr. Jiro Isuzu, who is a producer with the Nishitsu Corporation. I see from the brand names on some of your video equipment that you probably know more about Nishitsu than I do."
The mayor laughed heartily, and alone. He went on. "They have selected Yuma out of dozens of American cities as the location for Bart's new film. You may now ask questions, if you'd like."
There was an embarrassing silence. The print press looked at their notebooks. The TV crews hesitated. Bronzini had seen it all over the world. His reputation intimidated even the usually bold TV crews.
"Maybe I should be asking the questions," Bronzini quipped. "Like, how hot does it get this time of year?" No one even smiled. He hated it went they didn't smile.
Finally a pert blond who identified herself as the entertainment reporter for one of the TV stations piped up. "Mr. Bronzini, tell us about your new film."
"It's a Christmas movie. It's about-"
"And what do you think of Yuma so far?"
"It's hard to form much of an impression when all you've seen is the airport and the mayor's office." Bronzini beamed sheepishly. He waited for a follow-up question, but they shifted their attention to Jiro Isuzu. "Mr. Isuzu. Why did you pick Yuma?"
"It perfect for our needs," Isuzu said.
"Mr. Isuzu, do you think that Americans will go to see a Japanese-made movie?"
"Mr. Isuzu, how do you feel about the current Japanese economic dominance in the Pacific?"
"Mr. Isuzu . . ."
And so it went. The press rattled on about every conceivable angle that had to do with Yuma and several that did not. When their stories ran, some within hours, they would all play up the banal local angle. Nowhere would it be mentioned that this role was a significant departure from Bartholomew Bronzini's flex-and-pecs screen roles. Nowhere would it be mentioned that he had written the script. He was lucky if his two declarative-sentence comments would be reported accurately.
He hated it when they did that, too.
Finally the TV people began packing up their equipment and the print reporters shuffled out of the room, casting curious glances at him over their shoulders. He overheard one woman tell another, "Can you believe it? He's going to make over a hundred million on this movie and he can barely speak three words in a row."
After the reporters had gone, the mayor of Yuma came up to him and shook his hand again.
"You were wonderful, Bart. Mind if I call you Bart?"
"Go ahead. You're already in practice."
"Thank you, Bart. I'm up for reelection next year and this is going to kick off my campaign like a football."
"You have my vote," Bronzini joked.
"Oh, are you registered in this city?"
"It was a little joke," Bronzini told him. "Very little." The mayor looked blank. His expression wondered, "Can this Neanderthal make jokes?" Bronzini hated that expression.
"Oh," Mayor Cloves said. "A joke. Well, it's good to see that you have a sense of humor."
"It's an implant," Bronzini said.
"You wirr see to permissions?" Jiro Isuzu put in quickly.
"Yes, yes, of course. And let me be the first to welcome your production to our fair city."
Bronzini shook the mayor's hand in relief. That was it? A photo op? Maybe this wouldn't be so terrible. "Oh, before you go," the mayor said quickly, "could I have your autograph?"
"Sure," Bronzini said, accepting a pen and a photograph of himself torn from a fan magazine.
"Who do I make it out to?" he asked.
"Make it out to me. But it's for my daughter."
"Yeah," Bronzini sighed as he autographed the photo. He signed it, "To the mayor of Yuma, from his good friend Arnold Schwarzenegger."
The mayor read it without batting an eye. Just as Bronzini had known he would.
Out on the street, Bronzini growled a question to Jiro Isuzu. "Is that it? Am I outta here now?"
"No, we have many more visits to make. First we go to hotel."
"Why? Is the cleaning staff demanding a lock of my hair?" Bronzini said, hopping onto his bike. Bartholomew Bronzini followed the van to the Shilo Inn, an elegant adobe hotel on Route 8. The lobby entrance was blocked by marching picketers. They carried placards and signs reading "Bronzini Unfair."
"Bronzini Is Un-American."
"Bronzini the Traitor." One man carried a Grundy III poster showing Bronzini, his long hair held in place by a headband. The tagline read "Bronzini Is Grundy." The last word was crossed out and replaced with the word "Grungy."
"What the hell is this?" Bronzini shouted.
"Union," Isuzu told me. "They protest."
"Damn it. This is supposed to be a union film."
"It is. Japanese union."
"Listen, Jiro. I can't do a nonunion film. My name will be mud. I'm a hero to the working guy."
"That was before Ringo V, when Ringo kirred in boxing match. But you are stirr big hero in Nippon. Your future is there. Not here. Americans tire of you."
Bronzini put his hands on his hips. "Stop beating around the bush, Isuzu. Why don't you come out and speak your mind?"
"So sorry. Not understand. Have spoken mind."
"You don't understand. I'm not turning my back on everything I represent. I'm Bartholomew Bronzini, the rags-to-riches personification of the American dream."
"Those are Americans," Isuzu said, indicating the marchers. "They do not carr you hero."
"That's because they think I've double-crossed them. And I won't. I'm done here." He started for his bike.
"Schwarzenegger wirr do movie for ress," Isuzu called after him. "Perhaps better."
"Then get that Black Forest bozo," Bronzini barked. "We wirr. And we will pay his sarary out of rawsuit damages from suing you for breach of contract." Bronzini froze with his hands touching the handlebars of his bike. One leg was poised to mount the saddle. He looked like he was doing an imitation of a dog about to relieve himself against a fireplug.
The thought of Sehwarzenegger being paid out of Bronzini's own pocket stopped him cold. Reluctantly he lowered his leg. He walked back to Jiro Isuzu. The Japanese's composed face looked faintly smug.
"You understand now?"
"Jiro, I'm starting not to like you."
"Production office in this hoter. We must go there. Many terephone carr to make. Much problem to work out if we are to start shooting on schedule." He pronounced it "sked-oo."
Bronzini looked at the circling pickets. "I've never crossed a picket line in my life."
"Then we go in side door. Come."
Jiro Isuzu started off, trailed by a cluster of functionaries. Bronzini looked at the picketers, who were so busy shouting slogans that they weren't aware that the , object of their displeasure was standing only yards away. Never one to back away from a challenge, Bronzini decided to reason with them. He started for the picket line, when a heavyset man noticed him.