At the Iveria Hotel. I’ve been in Tbilisi one full day. My room is on the seventh floor. The view is superb. I did a vast number of things today and I feel tired. Yesterday, I still didn’t know if I would come to Georgia. But I sent word to the literary chieftains that I was fed up with their vagueness and their mysteries, so the best thing to do would be to interrupt my trip though the USSR and return to Prague. I was given to understand that would happen, but a short time later a ticket to, yes, Tbilisi arrived by messenger, an employee from the bottom of the hierarchy, or so he referred to himself; I don’t know whether to apologize or scold myself for my thanklessness, because they had bestowed so many kindnesses on me and I had not responded in kind, I was now getting what I deserved, that is, his humble company. Even on the plane I found it hard to believe that I was heading to Tbilisi, Tiflís in Spanish (an obsolete name, even in Spanish publications the Georgians write Tbilisi), where I arrived at ten at night, replete with a splendid moon. Sensation of treading on royal ground! From what I was able to glimpse by moonlight, it is a splendid city, different from all other Soviet cities. Today I started my tour, I began to touch the strata that make it up, a constant process of mental construction or deconstruction, a trip through various cultural layers that have been superimposed on the region, leaving vestiges of what it has been: Hellas, Byzantium, Persia, the Slavs of the first millennium, the Christian churches of the fifth century, the influence of Central Asia, Sufism. Visually, bathed in evening light, Tbilisi is an Andalusian town nestled in the Caucasus. The Persian presence is equivalent to the Arab presence in Andalusia. By day it has other attributes, a majestic topography, a city of hills and canyons crossed by a river that can be seen from everywhere. The houses appear to rush toward the void, terraces and balconies fly through the air, over cliffs, through which flows the mighty Kura. I was just with the writers at their organization’s headquarters. They are truly the rebellion; at least the handful with whom I spoke. They have invited me to a banquet, a supra, at two in the afternoon. Last night, after arriving at the airport, I knew my stay in Georgia would be wonderful. Despite recent disappointments and inconveniences, I can say that it has been a memorable journey, and that the obstacles to reach my goal had a noticeable effect: they caused my interest in the region to grow. In The Tempest, Prospero magically devised an intricate plot so that Miranda, his daughter, and the heir to the kingdom of Naples will fall in love. It is the first step towards the unmasking of his enemies and their asking for forgiveness for having dethroned and exiled him. Many years have passed, and it is time to repair the wounds. The young couple’s love, and their subsequent marriage, is the bond that reunites the separated parties. It was enough that the two young lovers look into each other’s eyes to become bewitched. Prospero is happy because this event is an essential part of his strategy, but, as an intelligent man, he decides to thwart the lovers’ conversation, punish their love, knowing that when the triumph of love is easy, its value decreases. If they had read Shakespeare well, Russian writers would not have placed so many obstacles and difficulties in my way to reach Georgia. Their strategy was wrong. They destined that I find all the virtues of the world in this place. At the airport, I already noticed that the standard of living is much higher than the two major Russian cities: Moscow and Leningrad. As soon as I left the airport my sinusitis disappeared. And throughout the morning I have breathed beautifully.