Without warning, the sound of shattering glass broke the stillness of dawn, whereby the very last — and the largest — of the shards froze for a second before wobbling and falling out of a shop’s window with a screeching noise. It burst into a million pieces, sparkling amidst the first gentle rays of the rising sun, sounding like a myriad of tiny bells ringing. The wet pavement mirrored the early morning sun just as it reflected the other shop and residential windows and cars. The streets were almost empty, as such early mornings were the rendezvous for the elderly, the homeless, and the select few whose very healthy lifestyle obliged an early morning run, come rain or shine.

Then, more startling than the sound of the broken glass that rippled through the silence, or the start of the persistent ringing of an alarm clock — the loud and piercing sound of police siren filled the neighborhood, abruptly ending what little was left of the stillness of the fresh day. Everyone in the neighborhood was jolted awake in a state of confusion, and it did not take long for the curious onlookers, the homeless, the elderly and the children to slowly turn up from all directions, creating a crowd at the scene. Many of those passing by stopped for a moment to simply look, murmur, and ask questions — anything to delay the start of a new working day.

It was Ivan who was the first, as usual, to arrive at the scene. There was perhaps no better person to give a detailed explanation to the police, fend off onlookers and give some scolding to the mischievous and omnipresent street boys. He sat in his wheelchair with an air of grandeur and a straight back, dressed in black from head to toe, with his jacket buttoned up. He was with his signature long cane attached to his wheelchair, which he used to reach just about anything he needed to get hold of and to push away annoying street urchins. His thick, curled beard rested upon the stand-up collar of his jacket, beautifully setting off its silver-grey hue against the dark tone of his clothes. There was something majestic about his whole figure, and it was interesting to see his lively face display a mixture of conflicting emotions —benevolence and arrogance which, as Ivan firmly believed, he needed to safeguard himself from people’s mockery and jeering.

Ivan knew just about everything that went on in his neighborhood, and there was no single issue, however insignificant, that became resolved without his involvement. His sharp, piercing eyes made people want to shrink, curl into a ball and disappear before him. Boys were scared and adults avoided him. He, however, simply wanted to be a regular man in people’s eyes and he thus spoke with a pleasant tone — one that was almost kind, as if he was everyone’s old friend. Anyone who would not look at him while he was talking, would surely conjure a mental image of a gentle grandfather speaking.

Amidst the huddle, a police car pulled over by the pavement. A young, clean-shaven policeman jumped out and decisively took strides towards the broken shop window. Wanting to look indispensable, he took a deep breath and, setting his voice as deep as he could, croaked: “Well, well, well, looks like we’ve got another situation here again, don’t we? Let’s hear what the witnesses have to say.”

But there turned out to be no witnesses apart from Ivan, who, as always, wasted no time in narrating the events. He was not at the scene when the event itself unfolded, but nevertheless saw and heard everything.

“I was just about to get out of bed – well, not literally, as the last time I could do so was twenty years ago, before the accident…”

His tragic story was narrated many times both by Ivan and his neighbors. The car crash that rendered him paralyzed also left him forsaken by his wife, who left with their only son — a loss that grieved him more than his abrupt inability to move. As the residents would have it, the old man, from then on, lived with his spouseless sister. They also speculated that there would hardly be any woman in this world selfless enough to tolerate his temper, his grumbling, constant brawls with the street boys, squabbles with the milkman or just about anyone unfortunate enough to get in his way. Over the years, Ivan had mastered the art of indulging in self-pity, and there was almost no bystander that he spared from recounting his personal tragedy. The pity, which he felt towards himself, passed on to others and, in their eyes, Ivan gradually turned into a hero and a martyr.

“So I got out of bed,” continued Ivan, “crawled to my wheelchair and rolled it to the window to check if the milkman came. And as I looked out, I saw some boys scrambling on the other side of the street, running and then looking back with an expression of fear etched on their faces. I thought to myself: they certainly wouldn’t get up at the crack of dawn just to witness the beauty of sunrise — so I then hurriedly got dressed, which was, as you can perhaps imagine, not an easy task considering my situation. I, however, have been doing it alone for a while now because I really could not expect others to do it for me…”

The policeman, who was now shifting his weight from one foot to the other in hesitation of acting on his urge to cut short the painstakingly long narration of this seemingly important and proud looking old gentleman, finally interrupted Ivan. The old man’s appearance indeed instilled awe and demanded respect from other people. Standing before him easily made one want to confess any wrongdoings — real or imaginary — and even apologize, just in case, maybe not for oneself, but as intercession for all other selfish people who, according to him, only cared about themselves.

The young policeman then turned to the group of boys standing at some distance and gave them a stern look, trying to emanate importance and superiority despite his boyish face and rosy cheeks, giving away his young age. He bent his head slightly backward for an expression of disdain towards these tanned, carefree boys, and then squinted his eyes in a very authoritative manner. As usual, Vaska, a scrawny boy in old, worn-out trousers with carefully stitched patches and sun dyed, almost colorless hair, stood in front of the group. His clothes revealed a woman’s care and a tinge of poverty behind them. His large, greyish eyes expressed depth and vigilance, and his lightheartedness shining through a layer of seriousness was not typical for a boy his age. Vaska approached the old man and shook his head with impatience, making his strands of uncombed hair scatter in every direction, looking like a fading dandelion that was ready to scatter into the wind like a fluffy white cloud on springtime day.

“I don’t know what you saw, but that’s not true,” the boy snapped, red with anger and with contempt on his face as he approached Ivan with clenched fists. He was one of the few street boys brave enough to confront the stern old man. If it had not been for the policeman, Ivan would have surely hit the boy with his heavy wooden cane. For a second, the old man forgot about who he was talking to and started reaching for his cane but stopped in time. He then smirked and silently pointed at the slingshot sticking out of Vaska’s old trousers. The boy gloomily stared at the slingshot’s band hanging from his pocket before taking it out, carefully studying it, as if seeing it for the first time, and pushing it back into his pocket.

“Give me that!” demanded the young policeman, taking a step forward and stretching out his arm. Vaska shrugged his shoulders and gave it to him almost without hesitation. He then suddenly started looking preoccupied as if whatever was on his mind was clearly more important than what was happening.

Judging by the policeman’s face, it was apparent that he was bent on keeping up with his tough image. He wanted to do his job well and implement the law to the letter but it did not seem to be working well. He thoroughly questioned the other boys but did not find a shred of evidence pointing to them committing a crime. The boys now gathered around him, emptying the entire contents of their pockets which contained all sorts of random things imaginable including old rusty nails, plastic corks, candy wrappers, cotton reels, fish hooks, and many other useful and useless items.

The sun had risen high, by now, in the sky and was blazing down mercilessly upon the town, almost threatening to melt the surface of its roads. The leaves of trees by the roadside withered gloomily amidst the light that shone so brightly that it rendered the surroundings bleached and colorless. The murmuring crowd began to get weary of looking and listening in and started to disperse. The boys, however, had to continue, slowly and cautiously, emptying and explaining each of their belonging to the policeman, who then inspected them before allowing them to put their items back into their pockets.

Ivan, who was now perspiring inside his dark wool jacket and already had streaks of salty and sticky sweat running down his back, continued to glance at everyone sternly, tapping his cane on the pavement every now and then. He was determined not to move an inch from where he was sitting — for as long as he needed to, and until the perpetrator of the crime has been found. It also seemed that he had already forgotten about Vaska, who with his shoulders drooped, stood at a distance, consumed in his thoughts as his eyes were steadily fixed at the old man.

Ivan’s resolve and focus were only distracted when a woman, dressed in a simple cotton dress beneath her white apron, came up to him. She looked just like Ivan that anyone could immediately conclude that she was his daughter by their strikingly similar facial features, mannerism, clumsy movements and even the way they turned their heads. But at a close glance, it became clear that judging by her age, she could not possibly be his daughter — but his devoted and faithful sister. Surely, if she had a husband and perhaps children, she would have served them so tirelessly that she would forget about herself and live only for them through their joys and sorrows, and would shrivel at the thought of caring about her own unnecessary needs. The only thing that she knew she needed was nothing more than peace, harmony, and salvation for her soul through her devotion and service, without which, she would become nervous and irritable. It was both her strength and weakness — and indeed she felt her strength with her heart but understood her weakness by mind.

“Ivan, dear, let’s go. It’s nearly midday and it’s time to go home. Lunch is on the table and it’s getting cold.” she said as she bent down to adjust his hair, moist from sweat and falling onto his forehead like a wet mop. But Ivan simply waved her off and did not even turn to cast a glance at her.

“So why don’t you go home by yourself, then? You’re distracting me. Can’t you see that we’re dealing with a crime here? There have been more crimes recently… definitely more… and there’s no way of bringing perpetrators to justice. These street kids and whoever might be responsible will just feign innocence and tell you that they don’t know anything. But I’m not going to allow that!” he muttered under his breath. “Tatiana, is there any justice left in this world?” he asked, but without waiting for an answer, he continued: “If there’s none left, then we’ll just have to find it ourselves. They don’t know me!” he said, nodding his head as if agreeing with his own words.

After this brief moment of monologue, he calmed himself down and turned to the policeman, who now stood with his feet wide apart and his arms akimbo, which was clearly to put up a show with this unnatural and most uncomfortable position. He did not know what to do with his arms and this was the best he could think of to project the image he had in mind. If it were not for the sweltering heat, he would have continued tripping on his limited but very real powers. But the debilitating sun, which became no longer pleasant, forced him to wrap up the process and thus he started to dismiss the boys. But this young police officer, who nobody in the area was intimidated of, heard the old man’s words:

“Is this how you perform your duties, young man? Walls are shattered, windows are broken, and before we know it, people are mugged!” snapped Ivan as he started tapping on the pavement vigorously, unbuttoning the collar on his jacket and exposing a weak, thin neck that made him look defenseless — but only for a second — for everyone’s eyes were now fixed on his cane’s tapping, lashing the ears of those standing around him. The old man then suddenly turned his wheelchair and approached the startled Vaska, who took a step back in reflex.

“Just look at him!” he barked, pointing at the boy. “He made a slingshot to obviously shoot and destroy what other people have built. We are talking about the people who have worked all their lives, like my sister Tatiana here.” He cast an imploring look towards the remaining crowd, appealing to everyone before he again turned his wheelchair to his former spot and pulled his sister by the skirt, as if to prove his words. Tatiana froze in embarrassment and did not know where to hide.

And apparently not yet done with his point, Ivan stressed: “And she fixes everything by herself in our tiny flat, too. I’m telling you: apart from washing, cooking and mending clothes, she can fix any broken leg of a chair and anything you can think of… you see?” He proudly looked at his sister from his wheelchair, folding his arms. The crowd turned their heads to the modest Tatiana, who stood there wanting to be swallowed by the ground, as some started looking at her with sympathy and pity. Pleased with the effect he had produced on others, the old man again turned to Vaska. Majestically sitting in his wheelchair with his chin up, the old man sneered at the scrawny boy with both contempt and condescendence.

“And you, you rascal, instead of behaving and doing your homework, you run around all day,” Ivan stammered at the word ‘run’, but then continued, “causing trouble, having nothing better to do.” He then turned to the policeman. “Officer, I insist that you, for the sake of peace and order in this community, take this street boy into custody.”

The policeman nervously shrugged his shoulders, as if feeling an itch between his shoulder blades. He then reluctantly walked up to Vaska and took him by the shoulder. The boy flinched and tried to shake off the policeman’s heavy hand but the young law enforcer only squeezed his shoulder tighter and said in a low voice:

“Come with me then, kid.”

Vaska nodded silently and, lowering his head, followed the policeman’s orders.

People started leaving as the commotion came to a conclusion. Tatiana pushed her brother’s wheelchair to the front door of their home. The sudden gust of wind filled them with prickly elm-tree seeds. Ivan brushed them off his clothes, coughing and fidgeting. It was obvious that he looked worried and upset, but he simply pressed his lips and kept muttering: “Nevermind, We’ll show them… they don’t know what we’re capable of.”

The week that followed was not marked by any extraordinary events. Vaska, who was released from the police station the same day, loitered around town. Ivan dwelled in his miseries and smoked his pipe ceaselessly, and the more he smoked, the more gloomy he became. He was so used to this routine of filling his pipe with tobacco, which calmed him down, that he oftentimes smoked just for the sake of sticking to his routine. He would take out his pouch of tobacco, take a pinch from it, rub it between his fingers and draw them to his nostrils to inhale its strong herbal smell. He would then fill the chamber of one of his pipes with the tobacco and, lightly stuffing it, would start smoking as if performing a solemn rite. The pipe became for him a symbol of constancy and stability, and when he smoked, he thought of himself as an embodiment of some unwavering rules, set by an unknown authority.

Sunday evening brought thunder as the skies darkened. The chirping of the crickets and the songs of the birds ceased. Nature stood still for a moment, heralding the onset of a mighty and pouring rain that lashed down and bent the delicate flowers on flower beds and shook off seeds and catkins of the roadside trees. Water accumulated into dents and filled the cracks of the pavements, forming huge puddles that eventually gave in to powerful streams that rushed down the streets with a dull whisper, finding its way into a river bed. Lightning flashed almost every minute, and bursts of thunder echoed from far away, practically merging into one long and frightening roar that was enough to trouble anyone’s heart and soul. It seemed that the sky cracked open like a ripe walnut and the air sucked up by an unseen force that rendered the town without any to breathe.

Vaska stood under a tall elm tree opposite the square where the shop with the shattered window stood. Cold and afraid, he shivered as he hid himself, soaked from head to toe but determined to stay there until morning. At about eleven o’clock in the evening, however, after the rain had stopped, he heard a rustling that sounded like tires on the wet pavement. The noise then stopped and everything became still. A squirrel scaling above him on the wet branches of the tree sprinkled Vaska with droplets of rainwater. As the street lights lit aglow, he listened in, peering into the dark, deserted street beside his spot. He heard something — or someone — approach. From out of the shadows appeared a figure that stopped on the other side of the street. Vaska froze. He hugged his shoulders in a feeble attempt to stop his body from shivering and his teeth from chattering. He was so cold that it took him all his efforts to fight tears and the urge to run home. Suddenly, he heard the strange figure that emerged from the darkness laugh and, several moments later, heard the sound of shattering glass. The streetlamp broke into a million pieces, no longer able to glow but lay on the pavement without light.

Overwhelmed by what he saw, the boy stopped shaking as the fire of anger consumed him, leaving him gasping for breath. Vaska leapt out of his hiding place like a panther on a hunt, and nearly knocked over the wheelchair where Ivan, leaning forward, sat. His aged wrinkly hand clutched a slingshot and his face wore a mischievous and childish smile.

“So that was you all along, you evil old man! You planted the slingshot in my pocket. You wanted to ruin me.” Vaska was short of breath. He struggled to find the words to say as water trickled down his clenched fist and face, appearing like tears.

Vaska left, but not Ivan, whose smile now faded and turned into an expression of bewilderment. He was stunned and thus stayed in his wheelchair, frozen until the sun once again broke through the horizon where he was found in the same position with a slingshot in his hand. Everyone could not believe the sudden turn of events and found it incredulous to hear the austere and respectable man confess his wrongdoings. Ivan only pleaded to be left alone. He was eventually spared from going through trial due to his declining health and was only slapped with a minor penalty.

Vaska spent the whole month in bed with pneumonia. Every day, however, by his bedside, a bouquet of wild flowers never failed to appear. It was from the man across the street who sat beneath his window daily, watching over him from his wheelchair, come rain or shine. Clean-shaven, burnt from the sun, in a checkered shirt with an open collar, this man intently gazed at the window on the first floor. There were times when he would receive a sign from the window that Vaska was getting better, but the old man refused to leave. Ivan remained sitting there with a tender smile spread across his old but now rejuvenated face.