The security caravan made its way across Red Square. The noises made by the paid onlookers could hardly be called cheers. Many toyed with the wooden crosses they had been given, some turning them into make believe pistols and pointing them at the slowly moving vehicles.
The sky was dark and the sun was completely hidden behind gray clouds.
The entourage stopped at the entrance to the Grand Kremlin Palace and a white-robed figure, helped by several plainclothes officials, slowly exited a heavily guarded limousine.
He was bent over, clearly in pain. He did not smile.
Then the voice of a child standing on his father’s shoulders was heard above all the crowd. “The tyrant has white clothes.”
The crowd became quiet. As a wheelchair was brought out to the man who was being supported by men on either side, he turned and glared malevolently at the child. The child stared at him, unmoving.
Instantly, a uniformed soldier ran over and stood looking up at the child, the combat bayonet of his rifle inches from the child’s face.
Their eyes met and the child turned his gaze from the man and calmly repeated, looking directly at the soldier without flinching, “The tyrant has white clothes.”
The crowd was silent.
The smell of urine and sulfur, at first faintly detectable when the doors of the limousine had been opened, had permeated the area and some of the security detail were gagging.
First one and then many of the wooden crosses were raised up until the crowd was covered with them.
The white-robed figure had been awkwardly placed in the wheelchair, his moans clearly audible to those nearby, and then he was moved through the entrance into the Palace.
The solider who had been staring at the child walked away.
A breeze blew from one end of Red Square to the other. The air was fresh again. The clouds parted and sunbeams shone down on the Cathedral of the Archangel Michael.
Very good post.