Serialization of

'KNOCK AT EVERY ALIEN DOOR'

by

Joseph Harris

Chapter 5

A ROOF FOR CHARLIE GONZALES

A few days later Charlie’s roof was finished, and the monsoon rains left him and his family high and dry. He came to me in a state of elation, treating me with respect only a little less that that due a messiah. But his gratitude didn’t stop there. He came with an ardent invitation from his wife and daughters that I come to their house for tea.

I will never forget the strange mixture of emotion with which I received that invitation; my snobbery of wondering how such an illiterate creature could possibly participate in the civil ritual of tea, all this mingled with the heartfelt joy that Charlie would invite me as a guest into the presence of his wife and daughters, something virtually never done by members of his caste. It took considerable reflection on my part before I realized -- in the typical way Westerners often view Eastern converts -- that Charlie was a Christian.

I extended Charlie’s invitation to Sgt. Baker, who reminded me in no uncertain terms that poker took precedence over wogs for him any time. I made some excuse for Baker, and on the appointed afternoon went to Charlie’s hut.

Charlie met me at the entrance, bowing and grinning. He was dressed in a clean dhoti over which he wore a faded British jacket. His feet were encased in sandals, something I had never seen him wear before, and his jet-black hair was slick with some odiferous pomade. He kept motioning me to be seated on the only piece of furniture in the small room, a crude wooden bench. I sat down and looked at the ring of light at my feet, the afternoon sun pouring through and open flap that served as a window in one wall. The rest of the room was in semi-darkness, and the earthen floor gave off a kind of feral scent.

Charlie quickly disappeared behind a curtain made of burlap. I could hear murmured voices, one feminine and one masculine. Soon after there emerged from that penumbra two little girls , no more than seven or eight years old, pushed ahead by Charlie. I still see those beautiful dark faces, scrubbed clean, with very large brown eyes peering at me through an invisible veil of wonder and fear. Long black hair framed their delicate features like miniature madonnas as they stood before me, soldier-rigid in their crisp white dresses. Dresses, I was convinced, that were made for them by the sisters of Father O’Brien’s order.

In unison their heads turned toward Charlie, his peasant’s face glowed with pride as he nodded to them. With almost mechanical precision they again faced me and their childish voices were lifted in the ardent strains of "Onward Christian Soldiers," all five verses.

When they finished I was unsure whether to applaud, but that decision was aborted as they, on cue again from Charlie, launched into "Jesus Loves Me" with the same enthusiasm. The purity of their voices was such that it sounded like only one person singing, and when they finished this time I did applaud, suppressing at the same time the desire to give them an appreciative hug. I knew this would go against the peculiar code of our relationship.

Like all children released from the obligation of a good performance, joy was on their faces as they turned and ran through the burlap curtain. When I stood to express my appreciation to Charlie, he was bursting with pride, saying over and over, "Good Christians, Sahib. Good Christians...."

I thanked Charlie again, and when I made some motion of leaving he was almost frantic in his insistence that I be seated again. " Now you have tea, Sahib."

He turned quickly and went behind the curtain. Again I heard the murmured masculine/feminine dialogue, until the curtain was drawn aside and a woman in a white sari entered with a tray in her hands. A small teapot steamed beside one cup as she placed the tray beside me on the bench, all the while carefully averting her glance from mine. Like most Indian woman, Christian or not, tradition decreed that she be a non-person. But I could see enough of her face to know that it was she whose genetic stamp was on the daughters. She backed away anonymously, as if merely to be in my presence was an act of effrontery. She literally disappeared behind the curtain while Charlie stood by waiting for me to have tea.

Under Charlie’s surveillance, I poured a cup and sniffed the aroma. It was jasmine instead of my favorite, Darjeeling. I sipped the tea in silence while Charlie stood by smiling his approval as the pleased host, with an occasional glance at his wristwatch, not to hasten my departure, but to let me know he remembered that I had given the watch to him.

Behind the curtain all was quiet, and I never saw Charlie’s wife or daughters again. I finished the tea in silence under Charlie’s watchful eye, and then rose to go against his protestation that I have more. But again Charlie made motions for me to stay, and when he went behind the curtain I wondered what surprise he had in store this time. He soon reappeared with a large chapati, freshly prepared and still redolent of curry oil. He quickly explained that it was for Sgt. Baker, and asked that I take it to him. I thanked him and assured him of prompt delivery, trying all the while not to think of Baker’s response to this gift of Indian food. I could see him clearly, cigar in jaw, ready with some unflattering epithet when I presented it to him.

The saffron sun hung like a huge jack-o-lantern on the horizon in the late afternoon sky, casting a pink glow over the landscape. I had seen this often in my days in India and found it a memorable experience each time. Bathed in that glow, I made my way across the narrow levee of a rice paddy to Baker’s quarters, warm in the knowledge that , though it was purloined, there was now a roof for Charlie Gonzales.

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