There is something about that phone call, the way the voice sounds, that is like nothing else. Not even the voice, just the breath before the words that lets you know what is coming. And when you hear it, you ask yourself silly questions. "What you mean dead? Who?" And you repeat the name, trying to bring the face that the name means into focus. And sometimes, you get a blurry moving image, a memory of when you passed them on the street. More silly questions. Did I say good morning that time? Did he answer? You never get a clear image of the person's most recent face. When it comes to you, it is a seventeen-year-old boy behind the wheel of his father's giant old car. You remember that it was a Datsun 280C. You remember that he didn't know what he was doing. You can see the pride on his face. You remember him playing Tassa for Hosay. You remember him behind the counter of the shop.
You don't remember seeing him anywhere other than in the neighborhood, and it's almost as if he didn't exist outside of your personal world. But then you also remember his sister and his father and his granny. His father's name was always Mister Ali. He never had another name. So you called him Mister Ali well into adulthood, even after you had started calling company executives, academics, and government ministers by their first names. And you laughed at Mister Ali's stale jokes because it was part of the respect that you showed someone who sold your seven-year-old self a grocery bag full of snacks, taking the hundred-dollar bill and securing it for when your mother came to inquire what you had bought with the stolen funds. And that night, the shame of licks would be multiplied because Mr Ali's son had watched the whole story unfold and could imagine the scene for himself. At seven years old, his opinion mattered.
Now almost faceless in your memory, you are grateful to have told him good morning. You are grateful to have laughed at the jokes of a father who may never smile again. And as the last moments play in your mind, as you dab the horror brush unto the canvas of familiar places, places that had, for decades, constituted the boundaries of your world, you are invaded. You have been robbed. Something has been stolen, something shared, something precious.
I was told that he went to the barbershop for a trim. I know the barbershop. I know the barber. It used to be a small store. I knew the owner of that, too. There were stories about why his wife was not in the picture, stories I could recount but was too young to understand. The store was always dark, and there was never really anything on the shelves except cigarettes. He opened and closed late. I do not know what became of him. One evening, after the store had been transformed, I passed by and saw an ex-boyfriend's car parked outside. Horrified that he had chosen this of all barber shops, I pulled over and got out to confront him. It was cool and noisy and full of people, faces that I knew. When I saw him, I announced to no one in particular that he was never to get a haircut there again. The barbers looked at me and then at him. I walked away, knowing my will would be done. I was family. I was from there.
But apparently, Hassan wasn't. Living his entire life in La Puerta was not enough to shield him. I was told that it was a robbery. I was told that a policeman attempted to stop it. I was told that the robbers' refusal to comply has been measured against an indefinite stay in remand awaiting trial. Better to shoot your way out than become a victim of the judicial backlog. I was told that he probably died instantly.
When she called to tell me the news, I ask my mother, not to go out into the road. But I know she will go, both defiant and afraid but mostly shocked. She would go, a human bouquet of neurodivergent tendencies, to offer solace with words that don't come out quite right but with a heart planed smooth by the memories of making similar calls, and at least once, having to answer.
Once is enough, but in Trinidad, we do this kind of death often. We do it as if it is not the worst thing in the world. We do it superficially, only recognizing the face when the picture is published in the newspaper, like the boys whose bodies lay on the La Puerta pavement for hours while the police exercised their authority to exorcise the lack thereof. Never having known the name, we search for traces of the person for months after. And when they turn up in dreams and recollections, we are relieved that we remember.
We do it solemnly when it is someone we knew but didn't see often enough, like Jason, who spent half his childhood on my plum tree and gladly offered to put his underworld connections at my service after he was long grown and we were long grown apart. We miss them briefly, noting their absence in the grocery line or at the taxi stand. We see the cars they used to drive, or we see their children but not them. After the missing, we are reminded of their absence occasionally and are usually shocked that we forgot.
And then we do it slowly, painfully for those we have loved. Everyone is loved by someone. So today, Mr Ali and his daughter do it for Hassan.
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