Omerta

Chapter 69

         Moscow is well known for its unique architecture which hosts plenty of historic buildings. One of the better known is the Saint Basil Cathedral with its brightly colored dome. I've been here before. I've visited the Bokarev family on many occasions because Dad seemed to be the correspondent with our Russian allies before he was in prison. 

Everything moved in a blur. I drove through the city, went to the Bokarev gated and heavily protected mansion, and shared long sad hugs with the mob boss of the Bratva syndicate. I met family members of Mikhail's and most didn't even speak English. 

The ring on my finger meant to bring joy now received sad downward glances and 'sorry for your losses'.

        The mansion is beautiful, but I don't have it in me to take in the details. I haven't felt a single thing touch me since finding my dead, bloody long time friend on our kitchen floor. I spent some time in Mikhail's old bedroom, because I knew it well. As kids we played games on his area rug, as teens we snuck upstairs to make out, and now I was here with his engagement ring on my finger dressed in black to mourn him. Life is cruel. It's a series of suffering.

I'd come before my family or any of the head crime families because it was the appropriate thing to do. In Russia, or at least in this Russian family, a family sits in mourning at the house for three days. With dark cloth they cover every mirror and stop their clocks. The Russian's have a lot of superstitions about death that I never knew about until now. They believe this helps the spirit pass easily into the afterlife. It's an old tradition, but one the Bokarev family has kept alive.

Throughout this whole experience I learned that they host a viewing of the casket like us American households do, and they have a precession to the funeral grounds.

        Another very old superstition that I saw carried out was some of Mikhail's old lady aunt's throwing little sticks behind them as they walked. I found out that it's because it blocks the path of evil spirits. As cliche as this is going to sound it is actually also a common tradition, at least in this family, to 'pour one out' as they called it, which is to pour a little bit of vodka into the open grave. They also threw coins and some handfuls of dirt. All these old rituals and beliefs are meant to assist the spirit to heaven.

I stood in all black alongside Alexei Bokarev, who asked that I stand beside him since his wife has long since passed away, and his only son is gone. It felt right holding the arm of this man while we both looked down at that open plot that Mikhail would be buried at. The casket was already down there and I stared at it while the priest spoke in Russian the entire time. 

All the Italians who flew out here for this were in the back, and if they held eyes on me I couldn't even feel it. This all went by like hours lost in time. 

         A ring has never felt more heavy on my hand. I noticed when I was silently crying, and wiping at my nose with my left hand the light would catch this beautiful diamond and people were looking at it. I switched the tissue to my right hand. I can't stand sympathy. I don't deserve it. I really was heartbroken, that was real. But I also knew how I felt about a different mobster, and how I really didn't give my all to the man I'm crying for right now. 

But dammit, I found his lifeless body. I saw his dead eyes, and that bullet hole that's since haunted me in my already fucked up dreams. 

Alexei Bokarev is like a machine who can shut down his emotions to look strong and sturdy in front of people. He looked stoic beside me as I weeped. I don't know how mobsters do it because I cry about everything. I'm sick of crying, but I'm also terrified about what the next thing will be that causes me to cry. Too much tragedy has occurred in such a short amount of time that I think I'm getting a little superstitious too.