CHAPTER 28. A CHILD OF WAR.

February 28, 1998.

Altyn Markovich was born to the thunderous fanfares of the god of war. On this day, his mother experienced pain twice—the first time due to the birth of her son, and the second time due to her own death. A willful Serbian bullet instantly took the life of the one who, just a few moments earlier, had given new life to this world. Altyn Markovich wept very loudly today—he had not only lost the warmth and love of his mother, but he had also unconsciously realized what kind of world he had come into. This world was harsh and cruel—it was merciless even to children. Tired of crying, Altyn Markovich looked around—there was no one near him, no one and nothing could help him. Such was the hospitality of the planet called Earth. At the very moment when the aforementioned small, defenseless child was in a crib, his mother, with a bullet hole through her chest, lay in a pool of her own blood on the floor—she, like his father, had been killed by Serbs. He looked at his mother—she was a young, beautiful woman of twenty-three: looking at her at that moment, somewhere inside himself he felt a certain connection with this woman, but he could not consciously understand that she was his mother—he was so small that the first notes of human instincts had not yet played in him. Silently and for a long time, he looked at this scene. Suddenly, his tender flesh felt hunger. Altyn Markovich started crying again. His small hands trembled like the wings of a chick that had just left its native home. Trembling incessantly, with his whole body now—hands and feet—Altyn Markovich involuntarily turned to the other side, where his hands found something metallic and something made of paper: it was human money—the little boy, not knowing the true nature of these things in any way, pulled them to his mouth and completely covered them with moisture from his oral cavity. A few moments later, his stomach began to ache. Starting to wave his arms about quite chaotically, he threw a round coin out of his hands, which fell onto the floor, which was partly stained with his mother's blood—Altyn Markovich did not yet understand the meaning of these pieces of paper and these coins: he was still unaware of the essence of what caused some people to mercilessly take the lives of other people. He cast his vague, still immature gaze after the coin—he saw his mother again. He was not yet able to love her, just as he never loved her later—his nature loved the memory of her that was left within him. On the aforementioned crib was now everything that was most valuable to his mother at that moment, with which she wanted to escape that war as soon as possible—himself and the money. Thus, Altyn Markovich, having involuntarily comprehended the first plots of human life, and also having gained his first human experience, fell asleep after a short time—a series of events flashed before his eyes: he dreamed of taking his first steps, growing up, gradually getting older, going to school, moving to another country, getting married—he had only closed his eyes for a few moments, and he had already grown up... It all happened so quickly, so fleetingly! No, it was not a dream!

Here he is, today, February 28, 2023, already in one of the corridors of the territorial center for social support and recruitment—exactly 25 years have passed since the very moment he was born, when he lost his mother, when the Serbian police began their offensive against the Kosovo Liberation Army: today, as 25 years ago, there was a war in this world, only now in a slightly different country, of which he was now a citizen! When he was born, war caught him in Kosovo; now, when he became a citizen of Ukraine—in Ukraine!

With a rather sharp movement, he rubbed his eyes and carefully knocked on the door of one of the offices—from behind the door, he heard a strict and, it seemed, irreversible: "Come in!" Confidently stepping over the threshold of that office, he saw a man, an officer, thirty years old, and a woman in civilian clothes, forty-five years old—having lived not a single day on this earth, and accordingly having seen a lot, Altyn Markovich immediately concluded that they were lovers: her eloquent glances, which seemed to be unceasingly directed straight into the essence of that young officer, could not have been anything other than loving. A few moments later, the aforementioned captain hastily left the confines of that office, thus leaving Altyn Markovich alone with Zinia Welshaw—the woman who was, to a certain extent, responsible for military registration within the corresponding administrative-territorial unit. Staring at her, listening carefully to her words, and meticulously studying her every movement, Altyn Markovich in a matter of minutes learned about her what even she herself was afraid to admit to her own nature—she was a true, genuine child of war. At 45, she constantly tried to look young—the main reason for this was the daily presence of her young thirty-year-old lover next to her. This was also evidenced by her current attire, which, it must be admitted, was from not the most ordinary brands of the era described—did the long-remembered scent of her "Chanel №5" perfume not speak of this in the loudest way? Like every woman who had certain resources, she desperately wanted to follow fashion. In the soul of Altyn Markovich, a well-built man in the prime of his life, after he saw these scenes, decorations, and main actors, a most sincere smile could not but arise. How could he, a young and handsome officer, enter into this kind of personal relationship when he was able to create personal relationships of a much greater quality and scale? The answer to this question, in fact, is not so difficult: every man is, first and foremost, primitive instincts; every woman is, first and foremost, primitive feelings.

Altyn Markovich addressed the aforementioned woman with a question, but at the very moment he said it, the corresponding words of the host of one of the state radio stations came from her "Dell" laptop, stating that today, at 2:00 PM, there would be breaking news, and so Zinia Welshaw gave this twenty-five-year-old man a very eloquent, but not verbal, visual sign that he should be silent at that moment—Altyn Markovich could not but obey the will that was more powerful at that moment, but not more mighty than his own will. Listening with special attention to the content of the rapidly changing news, this muscular native of Kosovo studied with no less interest the very emotions, feelings, and thoughts that at this moment either wandered or settled in the rather peculiar being of Zinia Welshaw: the expression on her face, already well-sprinkled with freckles and wrinkles, fully corresponded to the very events that, in turn, were now taking place at the front—when the news had positive shades for her state, her face instantly frowned, personifying at that moment, truly, a leaden sky; when the news was not of the most pleasant nature for the people, one of whom she was, Zinia Welshaw immediately found a wonderful mood. Since the beginning of the war, she had never loved news about the victory of her state, as well as its successes—such news awakened thoughts in her mind that her power, and accordingly the increased attention to her person, would soon come to an end: since the beginning of the war, for the first time, attention was paid to her, a gray, inconspicuous being—having tasted the feeling of being needed by other people, having tasted the feeling of some local, albeit small, but still, influence, Zinia Welshaw completely lost the very thread that connected her mind and her feelings with reality. At the very hour when hundreds of people were dying at the front, at the very moments when thousands were becoming disabled, at the very minutes when dozens were losing their sanity and reason, Zinia Welshaw was experiencing, perhaps, the most important happiness of her life—she had found, albeit insignificant, but still power, and accordingly a considerable number of people, willy-nilly, were forced to bow before her mediocrity, grayness, and insensitivity; for the first time in a long time, she entered into those very human relationships that are characterized by a gentle sensual inclination towards each other. In one year, the war gave her what 44 years of peace had not given her. Involuntarily, in a single moment, having gained power, she also directly gained success, and accordingly wealth—she was one of those people who, wanting to gain too much and not at all content with what they had, would rather lose everything than gain an awareness of their existence, their essence, and their actions. Altyn Markovich looked at her cabinet—at that moment, there were several bottles of her revered dry brut sparkling wine. "This wine, although exquisite, is used in the most base and vile companies," Altyn Markovich said, looking alternately at the expensive appearance of the label of that drink, and at the face of Zinia Welshaw, full of lies and ignorance. Suddenly, he shifted his gaze to her desk—on it, in chaotic order, were now funeral letters, above which a fragile foil with uneven pieces of dark chocolate shone with a silvery flame: those letters, which for some constituted, perhaps, the greatest tragedy in life, for her were just simple, ordinary, unremarkable documents. The news bulletin came to a logical conclusion—the war did not end, and this was the main thing for Zinia Welshaw. She let out a sweet sigh, the true meaning of which could only be understood by a true child of war. Altyn Markovich wanted to continue the dialogue—intending to say the phrase that was so disturbing to his mind, he immediately overcame that intention in himself: on the radio wave, into the Lethe of which the news bulletin had sunk a few moments earlier, the very song began to play that this native of Kosovo interpreted as nothing less than a certain sign, a symbol of higher providence—it must be admitted that Altyn Markovich knew how to pay attention to this kind of sign, and therefore often avoided some unpleasant situations or, on the contrary, ended up where he found what, in the opinion of fate, was necessary for him. Altyn Markovich was well aware that it is the smallest circumstances that give rise to the greatest events. The song playing on the radio at that moment was "Shut up" by The Black Eyed Peas.