Shelter from the Devil

The Viewing, Part 1

Boris jumped at the sound of the doorbell. "Who is it?" Sweat trickled down his brow as he dragged himself to the door, a shooting pain stabbing his head. Boris had not slept in more than two days. He had tried a mixture of narcotics and alcohol to sedate himself, but it had only made his condition worse.

"Fuck," he cried as the doorbell rang again; this time, longer. This better be you, Christian. This better be you, Boris thought as he struggled to disengage the bolts before the next ring pierced his brain. Finally, he opened the door to find Christian leaning against the doorframe, his gaze fixed on the floor. "Were you trying to wake up hell with your ringing?"

"I'm sorry," Christian said, raising his head, looking as tired as Boris, though a bit more calm and composed. He wore a suit similar to the one he had worn on the night of the tragedy, the only addition was a black, satin tie embroidered with white paisley motifs.

"Well, come in, what are you waiting for?"

Christian lumbered in with a slight hunch, as if his shoulders could not bear the weight of his own grief. After leading him to the kitchen table, Boris ordered him to sit down. "Christian," he said. "I–I don't know what to–"

"You don't have to say anything."

Boris nodded and fetched a bottle of vodka along with two stemmed shot glasses. "You are the only person I can still talk to," he said. "They all despise me, the rest of them. My wife, my brother, they would rather it was me instead of...." Boris caught himself and focused on pouring the drinks.

The two men drank in silence.

"I did not know. Anna... she said little about her family."

"Anna knew how to keep secrets," Boris said, chortling. "Unlike Darya... her mother," he added, eyeing Christian. "But it doesn't matter–" The doorbell rang loudly, and Boris froze in his chair. The undertakers. Christian moved to the door, while Boris, with a trembling hand, reached for the bottle and poured himself another shot. "Fuck," he said, wincing as the liquid burned its way to his stomach. Then he rose and joined Christian in the other room.

Two black-suited men stood in the doorway. One of them was tall and slender with dark pomaded hair brushed to one side of his scalp. The other man was just as tall but of a thicker build, his head clean-shaven. The slender man used his hand to cover a hacking cough before saying, "Mr. Azarov?"

Boris stepped forward, but the reek of tobacco from the two men stopped him from coming too close.

"Please accept our most sincere condolences," the undertaker continued, his paper-thin lips barely covering rotting yellow teeth. "We are awaiting your instructions."

"Thank you," Boris said, trying to conceal his disgust. "Come–come inside."

The men obliged, but Boris quickly averted his gaze when one of the men entered carrying the wooden bier that would later support his daughter's coffin. "Over there, in the living room," he said. God have mercy; she deserved none of this.

Half an hour later, guests began trickling in, starting with Boris' brother Anton and his wife Evgenya. Other soon followed, relatives and old friends, including Anna's boss, Abram Babin, the editor of an independent Moscow gazette.

Darya Azarova appeared at the door next, wearing a black formal dress and a matching scarf set loosely around her hair. Anna, Boris thought after seeing his estranged wife for the first time in over a year. Anna looked so much like her mother. Darya was escorted by her brother, Valery Yunkin, a brutish man with a paunch that rivaled his broad shoulders. Darya looked toward the wooden bier and glared at Boris while Valery did his best to match her cold stare. Asshole, Boris thought, clenching his fists.

Father Grigori came in last, a tall, soft-spoken priest with a conspicuous black beard and long hair tied in a knot. Dressed in a long obsidian robe, he wore a kamilavka on his head and carried a metal censer in his hand. "Please accept my most profound condolences, Mr. Azarov," he said. "May our Lord grant your daughter eternal memory."

"Thank you, Father," Boris said, feeling a sudden tinge of guilt at the sight of the priest. "I appreciate your kind words." The priest nodded and started greeting the other mourners while Boris went over to Christian. "It is time," he whispered into his ear.

"Time for what?"

"Time for the coffin to be brought up."

Boris, followed by Christian and four other men, went out of the apartment and plodded down to the street where the slender undertaker was leaning against the hearse, a glowing cigarette dangling precariously from his paper-thin lips. When he drew on it, his cheeks hollowed so much, it looked like he could flay himself from within. "Are you ready?" the man asked indifferently.

"What do you think?" Christian snapped.

The undertaker stood straight, threw the butt of his cigarette to the ground, and with his partner, proceeded to open the back of the hearse. The coffin inside was made of rich, solid wood, with a brass crucifix adorning its lid. Boris glared at it, grinding his teeth. It was meant for me, he thought, not for her. He then motioned sharply to the others to assemble around the pall.

There was a countdown before the six men lifted the casket and placed it on their shoulders before marching up to the second-floor apartment. Their footing was unstable as they climbed the first flight and slower-moving for the second. Christian, who was in the lead, evinced the most discomfort as the coffin weighed heavily on his dull leg.

As the pallbearers made their way into the living room, there were gasps and respectful bows from the mourners. Boris saw tears in some faces, but it was his wife's red-eyed scowl that gave him the most pain. I'm sorry, he thought as tears brimmed at the corners of his own eyes.

The undertakers assisted them with lowering the coffin onto the bier. Boris took a step back and watched as the two workers removed the lid. "God have mercy on her," he thought out loud.

Anna was fully adorned in white in a gown that matched the pasty color of her face. Her eyes were closed, but her countenance bore a hint of elation, as if she were recalling a fond memory.

The pungent smell of burning incense soon saturated the air as Father Grigori recited psalms, hymns and prayers while swinging the smoking censer to bless the living and honor the dead. God, will you grant me permission to see her once more?

When the ritual came to an end, the profound voice of the priest reciting the liturgy suddenly grew silent, and the mourners snapped out of their collective trance. Boris made a hesitant start toward the open casket, his eyes set on the motionless shell of his daughter. He knelt on the floor and hunched over the coffin, before placing a quivering hand over her hair to caress it. "I hope you are in peace, Anna," he said gently. "We will see each other soon... I promise." He brought his lips to her forehead. The wait won't be long, my dear; I promise.

For a moment, Boris could not bring himself back up; it was as if every last muscle had suddenly atrophied. God, you are but making me more eager, he thought as he grabbed onto the coffin for support and grimaced back to his feet.