West Side Story

by Irving Shulman

  His lips formed her name, he approved their shape. Maria was a good name to identify with the sun, the moon, stars and love.

  Try as hard as he could, it had been more difficult to think of Maria than of the Jets and the Sharks. About three that afternoon Baby-John had come into the drugstore to buy a new comic book, and whispered that he was speaking for all the boys, and they were sure glad to see him back with the Jets; even if he hadn’t been chosen by Riff to take on Bernardo. The Jets knew they could count on him, and Riff wanted Tony to meet them under the highway by nine o’clock.

  “I just stole me a new icepick from the five and ten,” Baby-John had said proudly. “And I made me a sheath and I’m gonna wear it down the back of my neck. So if them lousy Sharks don’t go along with Diesel licking their man, we’ll just take them on. And I’m personally gonna give it to Pepe and Nibbles.” He touched the scab on his earlobe. “I’m gonna push it right through so they can wear earrings just like their broads.”

  He had given Baby-John a free cold bottle of soda, and told him not to show that night. But he knew that Baby-John wouldn’t listen; instead he would hurry to tell the other Jets what he had said. Some of them, especially Action, and Diesel too, would say that he had really turned yellow and wouldn’t be there. Riff would have a bad time of it, so like it or not, for Riff’s sake, he had to show.

  At five o’clock he had drawn his pay, fifty dollars for fifty hours, bought an electric fan wholesale, run home with it and taken a quick bath, because cleaning up in the cellar of the drugstore was impractical. He’d told his mother that he wasn’t hungry, that it was too hot to eat, and he would be back later.

  At five-thirty he had concealed himself behind the door of a tenement across the street from the bridal shop until he had seen the woman who ran the shop leave, and minutes before six he saw Bernardo’s well-stacked chick come out. He had cursed when Anita had returned to knock at the door, which Maria had opened, but Anita had, at last, gone on.

  Now, his heart pounding so loud the drumming filled his ears, Tony ran all the way to the back door of the store.

  Yes, it was the same girl that had flown with him on the wind the night before, and in silence she offered him her hand he followed her into the shop.

  “I thought it would never get to be six.”

  “I too was watching the clock,” Maria said. “The minute hand did not move.”

  “That’s how it seemed to me too.” He paused to look around the store. “It isn’t so hot in here.”

  “That’s what the Señora said. She said it was cooler here than in her flat. I thought she would never go home.”

  Tony fingered a scrap of white silk. “But she did. Then I saw that other girl come back.”

  “Anita?”

  “I guess that’s her name,” he said. “Bernardo’s girl.”

  “Yes, Anita. She wanted me to go home with her.” Maria flung her arms wide in imitation of Anita. “You know what she calls the Señora?”

  “Old bag?”

  “That and something else. A bruja.”

  “What’s that?”

  Maria giggled. “A witch.”

  “That’s not so bad,” Tony said. “But I don’t think there’s a broom strong enough to carry her.”

  Maria giggled. “I must tell that to Anita. She wanted me to go home with her so she could give me some”—she thought for a moment—“bubblebath?”

  “Today Doc sold a lot of that in the drugstore. I should’ve brought you a present. What kind does Anita use?”

  “Black Orchid.”

  Tony shook his head because the name did not suit her. “We’ve got better than that in stock,” he said. “Tomorrow I’m gonna bring you some. And some other things too.”

  “You mustn’t, Anton.”

  “Why not, Maria?”

  She turned to study a pattern laid out on the cutting table. “Anita is going home to make herself pretty and exciting.”

  “So?”

  Maria turned toward him, her mouth turned down at the corners. “For Bernardo, after the rumble. Why do they have to fight, I asked her? And do you know what she said? She said that the boys fight for the excitement which becomes so big that dancing and”—she paused and blushed—“even girls are not enough excitement for the feeling. Anita says that after a fight my brother is so healthy, that she really does not have to use the Black Orchid.” She paused. “Anita knows you are coming here. It was the only way to make her go away.”

  “I see,” Tony was solemn. “And what did she say?”

  “That you and me—we are both crazy. Out of our heads.”

  “Then she doesn’t like my seeing you any more than Bernardo does?”

  Maria shook her head and her eyes told Tony that even if this had been Anita’s opinion, she would not have honored it. “She said that we must be out of our heads to think we could see each other. She said it was impossible.”

  “See how wrong she is?” Tony asked.

  “She is on our side,” Maria said. “But she is also worried for us.”

  “We’re untouchable, Maria. You and me. And I’m gonna tell you why.” He rested his hands, suddenly clammy, lightly on her shoulders and moved his head until his eyes looked directly into hers. “Because we’re still on a cloud. And that kind of magic doesn’t go away.”

  “Magic is also black and evil.” She shuddered. “Anton—Tony, I must know. You will tell me the truth?”

  “Now and forever.”

  “You are going to that rumble?”

  He exhaled, then shook his head. “Until you asked me, I didn’t know for sure. I was mixed up about it. Now I’m not. The answer is, no. The only thing I’m doing tonight is go home, get dressed, and call for you.”

  “Before you come to see me I must speak to my mother and father.” She was firm. “And before I do that you must stop the fight.”

  “I did stop it,” he insisted. “Last night. It’s not going to be anything except a fist fight. And Bernardo can’t really get hurt.”

  “No.” She continued to shake her head. “No fight is good for us.”

  “Maria, I’ve been here longer than you. I mean…” He paused, confused, for he had seen how she shuddered. “I mean that the fight has nothing to do with us. Nothing will happen,” he insisted. “Nothing. And smile again. Please.”

  “Only if you do this for me,” she said. “It is not for me, but for us that I ask. You must stop it.”

  “You asked for us,” he said. “So I will.”

  “Can you?” She thanked him by squeezing his hands. “You can?”

  “You don’t want even a fist fight? There won’t be any. You name it and I deliver,” he bragged.

  “I believe you.” She clapped her hands with awe. “You have magic.”

  It was the time to embrace her, to hold her in his arms again, and she rested, as if wearied by the heat, with her head on his shoulder. “Could you wear the white dress again? You see, I didn’t really get a chance to get a good look at it.”

  “The white dress?”

  “The white dress.” His lips brushed the outline of her ear as he murmured her name. “For tonight when I come by for you.”

  “You cannot come for me!” She was frightened. “My momma…”

  “… is going to meet mine,” he interrupted. “But first I gotta meet your mother. So I can invite her along when I take you to meet mine. You see, Maria, I have one too. My father, he’s been dead a long time.”

  “I’m so sorry, Anton.” Maria moved to free herself and Tony released her reluctantly. “I don’t know,” she hesitated.

  “But I do.” He was confident. “Now watch closely,” he said as he brushed at his arms as if he were rolling up both sleeves. “Nothing up either of them. And you said I have magic? So—” He pointed at a nearby dress dummy which had been drapped with a pale yellow scarf. He waggled his fingers at the dummy, then turned to Maria. “My mother. See, she’s coming from the kitchen to say hello. Th
at’s where she is most of the time when she’s home. In the kitchen.”

  “She is dressed so elegant for the kitchen,” Maria whispered as if in awe.

  “Because I told her you were coming in your white dress.” Standing behind the dummy, Tony moved the figure from side to side. “See, she’s looking you over. Sort of saying to herself… that you’re sort of pretty. A little skinny, but if Tony likes you that way, she does too.”

  Maria’s hands outlined a heavy woman. “She is…?”

  “She doesn’t mind if you say she’s sort of… well built. Just never say she’s fat.”

  “I will not say it,” Maria said as she skipped over to another dress dummy of slenderer proportions. “This is my momma.” She peeked around the dummy to laugh at Tony. “And I take after her.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Nunez, My boy Tony has told me all about your daughter. And I must say she’s as nice as he says she is.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Wyzek.” Entered into the spirit of the delightful game, Maria moved her dummy from side to side. “This is my husband, Mr. Nunez.”

  “How do you do, Mrs. Wyzek?”

  “How do you do, Mr. Nunez? I want to talk to you about my son. You see, he’s really gone—I mean, in love with your daughter. And he would like to talk to you about Maria.”

  “First we will talk about Tony,” Maria said. “Does he go to church?”

  “He used to. And he will start again.” Tony came from behind the dummy and knelt before it. “May I have your daughter’s hand?”

  Maria came slowly out from behind the dummy, for a moment stared anxiously, then clapped her hands. “He says yes! My momma too! Now you ask your mother.”

  “I already have.” He reached for Maria’s hand and kissed her fingers. “Right now she’s kissing your cheek.”

  “They will want a church wedding.”

  “So will my mother,” Tony said. Ruefully, he scratched his head. “I’m gonna have a lot of explaining to do to the father. But when he meets you, he’ll see—”

  “Anton…”

  “And what I’ll say to you about loving and honoring and holding you until I die, I’ll mean every word of it. So help me, Maria. And it’ll be the easiest thing I’ve ever had to swear to.”

  “I love you, Tony. And I want only that you will be happy.”

  “We’ll both be happy,” he insisted. “That’s the way it’s gonna be. I swear.”

  “Then I swear too.” She kissed him again, even more gently, and stepped back to look at him with smiling eyes and lips. “I’ll wear the white dress,” she said. “And I will be waiting for you to come to my house after you stop the fight.”

  “It’s a breeze,” Tony said. He looked at the clock on the wall with surprise. “It’s almost seven. Your mother and father will be worried. Let me walk you home.”

  “No, you must go out the back way,” she insisted. “I will lock the store and draw the shutter. Tony, what should I tell my mother and father—I mean about my wearing the white dress?”

  “That you’re going out with a boy who’s gonna call for you,” he explained patiently. “And when I get there, they’ll see that it’s me.”

  He had felt so good that he just had to walk and smile at the world so that almost another hour was wasted. Then, when he got home, his mother insisted that he at least drink something cold. Only after he finished the glass of milk in two gulps was he able to escape into the bathroom. “Ma,” he called as he rinsed the razor for the last time, “what time is it?”

  “Almost a quarter of nine, Anton.”

  “I’ve gotta hurry,” he said, as he ran from the bathroom into his bedroom.

  “You’re wearing your new suit?”

  “Natch.”

  “It looks nice on you,” she said. “It’s nice to see you getting dressed up. But I wish you’d stop for a real shoe shine.”

  “I’ll do that,” he called, as he slipped a tie under his shirt collar, then decided to put it in his coat pocket and put it on just before he got to Maria’s. Maybe, if things worked out, he would be able to tell Bernardo exactly how things were, and if he wouldn’t listen, then someone was going to have to knock some sense into him, which would be his job, not Diesel’s. Hurry, he told his reflection in the mirror, the sooner you get to the highway, the sooner you get to Maria’s.

  * * *

  Riff tossed aside his beer can, wiped his lips, and looked again at his watch. It was ten to nine and time to get started.

  “All right,” he instructed the tense, nervous Jets, “we’ll scatter and move over to the highway. And for chrissakes, watch out for Schrank. He’s been on my tail all day.”

  The Jets melted into the darkness. In the next street Bernardo gave similar orders to the Sharks.

  “You gonna have to make it home tonight?” he asked Anita.

  She pressed herself to him and rotated her hips slowly. “I told my mother I was staying with Maria. She said okay. But just where are we gonna go?”

  “We’ll see,” he said. “I gotta run.”

  “Take care of yourself, ’Nardo. And hurry. I’ll be waiting right here.”

  Bernardo waved again, and moved off down the street. A block away he paused in the hallway to check the spring on his switchblade knife. The hard instant click as the blade sprang out and locked into position gave him a feeling of confidence. With this knife he was going to stab deep into an alien world.

  For the knife made him as big as anyone, bigger, because it could cut anyone down to his size, cut someone into little pieces he could kick aside. Bernardo put the knife away.

  He wasn’t planning to use it tonight, but if the Jets thought he wasn’t ready to play it cool, if they started something funny, they were going to be in for a sharp surprise. Seven inches of surprise.

  Bernardo waited for a car to pass him, then darted across the road and dug his heels into the embankment as he descended slowly, with care, because this was no time to turn an ankle. His eyes were accustomed to the dark and he could see that despite the heat some of the Sharks wore their jackets over T shirts.

  With a sharp signal he identified himself, heard Chino and Pepe call his name, and heard one of the Jets say that the chief spic had finally shown. Spic… sometime when he had the time he would show them what a spic could really do. Man, the blood would really flow.

  “Fan out,” he ordered the Sharks. “And keep your eyes on me. If they start anything…”

  “We’ll be watching, ’Nardo,” Toro said. “We don’t trust them no how.”

  “I’ll second you,” Chino said as Bernardo began to remove his shirt.

  “Fine,” Bernardo agreed. He flexed the muscles of his back and shoulders, and checked the knife in his pocket. “Let’s go.”

  “Our man is ready.” Chino called.

  “So’s ours,” Riff said. “Let’m come center and shake hands.”

  Bernardo spit into the darkness. “For what?”

  “Because that’s how it’s done,” Riff said, after he turned to laugh with the Jets at the ignorant PR’s.

  “More gracious living?” Bernardo asked. “Look…” He pointed at Diesel and Riff, but included all the Jets and anyone like them. “I don’t go for that pretend crap you go for in this country. “Every one of you hates every one of us…”

  “You’re so right,” Riff interrupted.

  “… and we hate you double, right back. I don’t drink with nobody I hate.” Bernardo spat again, “So I don’t shake hands with nobody I hate.” Fists raised and ready, he stepped forward carefully.

  “Okay,” Riff said, “if that’s the way you want it.” He stepped to one side and signaled Diesel. “He’s all yours.”

  Scowling heavily as he opened and shut his right fist, Diesel moved in slowly. He was heavier than Bernardo and the light wasn’t as good as he would have liked it; but he was confident of being able to take anything Bernardo threw. Still, he was careful, for although the spic was light he had a reputation as a hard hit
ter. Bernardo had built up a real rep as a street fighter and there were some who said that if he could get the hate out of his system, really be cool and businesslike about it, he could at the very least become a good TV welterweight, because he could hit like a light-heavy.

  Diesel threw a tentative jab with his left which the spic avoided by taking a backward step before he countered with his own left and Diesel brushed it aside easily. Again Diesel threw the left, feinted as if to throw the right and moved his head in time to avoid Bernardo’s fist, which just grazed his ear.

  The spic was going to try for a knockout, which meant he wasn’t going to work the body, and this suited Diesel just fine because Bernardo would be working with his hands high. If he managed to land a hard one in Bernardo’s gut, the spic would double like a pretzel, and a hook would straighten and set him up for a hard smash to the mouth that would loosen at least three or four of those nice white teeth.

  Taking Bernardo’s short left on the shoulder, Diesel countered with his own left to Bernardo’s ribs. The punch lost its power because Bernardo had rolled with it, but not before his own left flicked Diesel’s lip, which began to swell.

  The American was tough, Bernardo knew, and as his hand grazed Diesel’s mouth, he wanted to crow with triumph. His feet certain and confident, Bernardo moved around Diesel, darting in to land one, take one, and skip away and start again.

  Fighting was like dancing; it had certain steps and rhythms, and once they were learned they were executed naturally, without really thinking about them. He would circle clockwise just a little longer, jabbing and hooking, feinting and ducking, then begin to circle counter-clockwise. This might throw Diesel and make him drop his hands for a second, which was all Bernardo needed for the one clean shot.