Free Homesick by Jean Fritz Page B

borrowed the Hulls’ Dodge sedan (which the Y.M.C.A. had bought) and parked it close by on the Bund. Did my mother think she could walk that far?
    It really wasn’t far and when my mother said yes, she could, my father motioned for coolies to carry our luggage to the car. I think he suspected there might be trouble because he stood on the gangplank and held up four fingers, as if he were trying to keep more coolies from coming on board. Mr. Jordan, a wide man, blocked the gangplank by standing right behind my father.
    But suddenly there was a roar from the dock and thirty or more coolies stormed up the gangplank, lifted my father and Mr. Jordan right off their feet and set them down on the deck. They circled around our pile of luggage (ten pieces), shouting, grabbing up suitcases and bundles, even pulling the briefcase out of my father’s hand. One coolie, seeing the basket I was holding, tried to pull it away. I clung tight.
    â€œThis is not baggage,” I shouted. “It’s alive.” When he didn’t let go, I kicked him on the shin. “It’s a baby tiger!” I yelled. The coolie glanced at a tall, pockmarked man who stood at the edge of the crowd, each hand tucked, Chinese fashion, up his other sleeve. He was better dressed than the coolies and seemed to be the boss. He motioned for the coolie to leave me alone.
    By this time five coolies had taken charge of the baggage. The others had backed off but had not left the boat. “Pay now,” they shouted. “Make the foreign devils pay now.” The tall, pockmarked man unfolded his arms; in one hand he held a knife.
    The cost of carrying a bag had always been five coppers, so for eleven bags (including the briefcase), the total should have been fifty-five cents. Today my father handed a twenty-cent piece to each of the five coolies which was, of course, almost double the normal rate.
    â€œI know you fellows are having hard times,” my father said.
    The coolies threw the money on the deck as if it were dirt. All the coolies began chanting: “Fifty cents a bag! Fifty cents! Fifty cents!”
    I could see my father set his chin in his stubborn, not-giving-in way. Then he glanced at my mother and without another word he opened his wallet and pulled out five single dollars, one for each coolie and an extra fifty cents for the man with the briefcase.
    As we followed the coolies off the boat, I thought the trouble was over. Some of the coolies lost interest when we reached the dock and went their own way, but some, including the boss, stayed with us. When we reached the stone steps that led to the Bund, the five coolies plunked the baggage down. That was as far as they went for a dollar, they said. They each needed two dollars more to finish the job.
    My father’s chin turned hard as stone. He looked at the boss. “We will go on,” he said, “or I will call the police.” He raised his arm as if he were about to call the police, but the boss pointed his knife at him. Other coolies produced knives.
    â€œIf you call the police,” the boss said, “you will be dead by the time they get here.”
    I felt my knees go weak and tremble. I was surprised, because I didn’t know that people’s knees really shook when they were scared. I had supposed that writers of books just said that in the same way as they made happy endings at the last minute. As I looked at my father’s chin and at the men with their knives, I knew no one was going to give in. Only a writer could save us now, I thought.
    Suddenly Lin Nai-Nai nudged me and pointed to the Bund which as usual was lined with rickshas parked on both sides of the street, but there were no coolies with the rickshas. All of them, up and down the street, were running toward us. In a moment they had surrounded us.
    â€œThis way, Mr. Gau. Hurry. This way,” one of the coolies cried. I recognized him. My father had helped him once when he was in