Santa Esperanza (Extract) By Aka Morchiladze English translation by T. Japaridze and M. Kiasashvili 1. White booklet
CHEST FOR WANDERING, PLAYING CARDS AND SOME OTHER ODDS AND ENDS To be searched through with utmost care by those who have decided to undertake the trouble of reading these notebooks. Therein the searchers will find the contents of the book made out of these notebooks. Without the contents, they will never be able to make head or tail of the book itself (though, on the other hand, they might not necessarily need to be able to, after all).
For the first time I visited Santa Esperanza (the same as St. John's Isles) in 1997. I stayed there for only four days, as it was quite a sudden decision of mine to visit the place, on my way from Istanbul, with too little money in my pocket, and even less time at my disposal. The simplified immigration rules were all in my favor: as is typical of most holiday resorts, one could peacefully stay there without any visa for a fortnight. But as soon as the fortnight's period of time expired, one had to rush to the nearest police station, equipped with one's passport and a good excuse, in order to generously explain to the local authorities the aim of one's arrival, and indicate the duration of his/her stay. If, meanwhile, one was happy enough to get some sort of a temporal job, one had to produce the contract as well, etc. Anyway, I didn't stay in Santa City (or St. John's Citadel) for more than four days then. But seven years later, I went there again; this time facing a lot more complications than I had experienced before. Well, it was not that the holiday resort immigration rules were no longer in force, but they were valid for the British citizens only, and for those from Europe without Borders. The rest of the ordinary tourists had to have their preliminary visas, or else they would never be allowed to stay at the place for even a fortnight. It seems very likely that Europeans have long forgotten about their visas whatsoever, while freely drifting from place to place all over their continent. But those who are the owners of the Georgian passports, have to fill in a huge amount of silly papers every time they feel like going somewhere. Sometimes they even have to certify the colour of their own eyes, to say nothing of the fact that they are to truly confess who has packed their personal belongings –their wife or their mistress – while they themselves were watching her carefully to avoid the terrible consequences of hiding a bomb, or some sort of poisonous capsules, in the remotest side-pockets of their traveling-bag. The owner of such a passport will also have to indicate, in some other papers, his future address and the exact sum of money which is or will be at his disposal. And so on, and so forth. But a real pilgrim never knows where he is going to end his pilgrimage. A real pilgrim simply likes to travel a lot. Anyway, it seems to be rather difficult for him to deal with the Europe without any borders ( if he is not a citizen of such Europe, of course), as far as the borderless Europe is always very curious about the aim of the pilgrim's pilgrimage, and about the sum of money the pilgrim is going to live on.
Well now, it's somewhat clear with Europe. But Santa Esperanza is not a part of this borderless continent. It lies off the Black Sea Coast. Quite recently though, there was a war, and for that very reason it must have restricted its rules towards those other miserable Europeans who are not from the borderless Europe either (and who don't seem to be quite European at all). This, in its turn, must have been done for the sake of preventing them from fleeing away from their Patria. But where on earth could the visa for Santa Esperanza ever be obtained? This tiny country has no Embassies or Consulates anywhere in Georgia, not even in Russia. The answer to this difficult question was to be found in the internet tourist sites of the country. So, I started searching for the answer and, before long, I got it. It turned out that the country had no Ambassadors, as is the case with many former British colonies that now are the members of the Commonwealth. These three small islands have their Supreme Commissioner who resides in London, and ranks as high as a consul. The British side also has the Supreme Commissioner who resides in St. John Citadel. Furthermore, if one tries hard, one will find in Istanbul the man who might be considered the Consul of Santa Esperanza, and who is able to give a non-European European (who is not likely to be a real European at all) the cherished visa. The position the man holds is called that of the Supreme Commissioner too. As I had saved a considerable sum of money long beforehand, and had a strong intention to visit the Isles once more, I decided to avoid the "human bondage" of getting the British visa, then going to London and suffering a lot more from getting the Johnish visa, and found a shorter and safer way: I planned an easier trip to Istanbul, where I would search for the Office of the third Supreme Commissioner. The Commissioner hated Georgians‌ Or rather didn't very much approve of them (to put it mildly to sound more European). He might have had some serious reasons for his disapproval, but he didn't trouble much to reveal those to me. Strangely enough, he was a Georgian himself, but spoke exceptionally English. In the course of our conversation, I inserted a couple of Georgian words into my speech, as I felt rather short of my English. But the man replied in English, saying he didn't understand my Georgian (he himself spoke the Johnish variety of the language). In the end, he ordered me to come back three hours later. When I was back to his office, he kept inquiring, for good twenty minutes, about my occupation and the reasons for my need of a six-month visa. I did my best to make my answers sound impressive. The whole procedure felt like being at an exam, a rather stiff one. He made me answer numerous questions from the history of his own country. My answers must have sounded too ambiguous, for the only information I had about the past of the country had been obtained from a tiny brochure by a Mr. Nebieridze. I was quite certain though, that the Commissioner had already given me the visa, and even stamped it in my passport, but he hated to tell me about it. In the end he somehow managed to give the passport to me, and advised me to go by sea. That was a really good piece of advice, for it proved to be much cheaper that way. So, this is how I went to John's Isles for the second time and stayed there for half a year.
During the last two months of my stay, I had been living in a rented apartment in the coastal quarter. February was already there, and I had to return home. The winters are generally very mild on those Isles, and one doesn't actually have to think about the frost at all. On the other hand, it's rather damp all around, especially for those who dwell near the sea, but it's always dry downtown. The sea is often stormy, and along the shore, twenty feet into the land, it seems to be drizzling non-stop. The sun is very rare in this season, but very welcome and very lovely. Such is the winter in Santa City. During those long six months, I was gradually becoming quite a native of the place. True, I didn't very much succeed in my Genoan talk and the local dialect of Turkish, but I managed to brush my Johnish. Frankly speaking, I still prefer this dialect of Georgian to the standard variety. I had made friends with a number of natives, and didn't at all feel like parting with them. I often sent telegrams to my wife, saying I had found a lovely spot to settle, and frequently promised her I would do my best to move the entire family there some day; I was also quite certain of getting a proper job easily. My wife wrote me back that there was another political unrest in Georgia, with lots of people marching, demonstrating and rioting all over the capital. Certainly, I didn't feel at ease on hearing the unpleasant news from my home country, but… You can never imagine what a life I was living in that fantastic city! It was the city that suffered from a war a year before, but there were no evident traces of the fact left or felt anywhere around. Such was St. John Citadel (or Santa City, as people prefer to call it). This illustrious residential spot was ready to overcome any troubles on its way – not with the means of brutality, violence or armed conflicts, but due to its immortality and magic! Oh no, please, don't think of me being a foreign tourist that admires the new places of interest. It's not that sort of superficial feeling that overwhelms me right now, and makes me speak like that; I feel and know it all from within and for sure! I have always been trying to invent a city of my dreams, but when I visited Santa City, I found the never-never land already invented for me. I realized it all the very moment I saw the place first, and had constantly been thinking about returning there since. And so, at last, I was there and happy! But, unfortunately, I had to go back home: first by sea to Trabzon, and then along the road to Georgia. It was not at all easy for me to leave. But it wasn't easy to live without my family any longer either. As for the family, well, they were already used to my long-term disappearings from time to time. Nevertheless, I was returning home, and like a man of infinite precocity, I started packing my luggage ten days in advance. During my stay in Santa City, I haven't lost a single day without writing something. There are some fine, thin notebooks sold at every shop on John's Isles. They have funny covers and remind me of my childhood notebooks – the thin ones of twelve pages – that were a bit wider. I bought nearly two hundred of those, and filled them with various stories. Some of the stories were condensed versions of the local historical facts, or of the current events borrowed from the local papers. Some others had been heard from the natives, and in case I failed to hear them to the end, I tried to invent the end myself. I had lots of them, those exciting stories recorded in my notebooks.
All the stories were quite different, none of them resembled another. Every time I tried to record a new one, I thought a lot. No wonder I managed to succeed in understanding a great deal of the mode of the Johnians' life-style. Those more than a hundred notebooks (to be more exact, there were one hundred and forty-one, when I last counted them) made up a huge excess baggage. For that I had to blame my age-long passion for using unexploited notebooks – I could never relinquish a bad habit of starting a new piece in a fresh one! The temptation of buying them in huge amounts was boosted by the fact that they were extremely cheap – threepence each. Thus, on the whole, all my expenses for them amounted to three local pounds only. So much for the notebooks. Now for something more important: All of a sudden, I found the way out – I found the key to the problem! I mean, I knew how to make a solid book out of those separate notebooks! The key was the initial device for everything that followed. If not that key, there would be no book at all. Frankly speaking, I didn't suspect I was writing a book when I started recording those stories. I simply did it for the sake of depicting some interesting facts and data, at times so indispensable for a writer. In other words, I thought I was ready to face the problem of taking a start on returning home. Generally, I am a very slow starter. Sometimes it takes me two to seven years of thinking and nursing the idea, before I actually write a book. But once the plot is ready, I can put it down on paper very swiftly. Five days were left before my departure, when a local friend of mine presented me with a pack of playing cards. This is a traditional gift on the Isles, and the most popular souvenir. But the ordinary packs for everyday practice, and those used for souvenirs, are quite different. As a matter of fact, it's definitely impossible to leave Santa Esperanza without those playing cards. Actually, I was going to buy a pack myself, but there are catalogues with prices for the souvenir packs, and the really good ones are rather expensive. It was quite obvious that I couldn't afford buying the extraordinary packs I liked best; but I couldn't easily make up my mind to choose amongst the ordinary ones. It was stupid to leave it as the last minute shopping, I know, but that's what generally happens. So, while I was thinking the problem over and over again, a friend of mine put a pack in front of me, on a cafe table, saying: "Here, take it and make a good use of it". That was a very expensive pack, and I felt terribly uneasy. It seemed unfair to accept the seven-hundred-pound gift for nothing! I made a desperate effort to take my wallet out of my pocket, but he stopped me by turning the pack over and showing me the inscription on it. According to the local tradition, the owner's name is often inscribed on the pack, in which case it indicates that the pack is hand-made and unique, created by some private artisan on request. My friend tried to set my mind at rest, saying the pack had been ordered a month and a half before, with the expenses shared among him and the other members of the club. I visited their club very often. My devoted friend's name was Li'le Mattallo, for he was the club owner's son. Now I guessed why he kept telling me (even as early as autumn) not to buy a pack, for the reason that I couldn't choose the right one.
I still felt very embarrassed, but very happy at the same time. I was happy and proud, because the price and the beauty of the gift told me I must have been someone quite special to my friends. Soon afterwards, I left for my native city Tbilisi. But a week later, to your surprise, I was already on my way to London. You want to know all the whys and wherefores? Well, I was absolutely certain that my new book was due in no time! Once I realize this sort of a thing, I immediately start realizing the other: what takes me a long year to do in Tbilisi, takes only a short week elsewhere in the world. I was completely broke at the time. But a sympathetic couple of my immediate kin, living in a suburb of London, suggested a free boarding to me. I am not going to give their names here (for they themselves don't care about it at all), but I can't help admitting their boundless hospitality towards me every time I go off the beam, or feel so strongly about my wonderful city that start hating it. On board the plane to London, I was aware of something very important – I had found the key! I found it in the coastal quarter apartment well after midnight. It was Monica who drove me home that evening, promising to come to the port on the day of my departure. Dear old Monica! She has always been so good and kind to me. She is a real friend of mine, and a very pretty girl indeed. To put it into the Johnish slang, the girls like Monica can easily walk to and fro through the looking-glass. Nonetheless, she always says good-bye with the words: – I'm definitely unlucky with men! I went up to my bedroom, lay on my bed, and started examining my pack. True, I had a novel by Jessica Rider – "The Gorge of the Coloured Springs" – open and waiting, but I hadn't once glanced at my present since afternoon, and I felt rather desperate for that. So, I started to examine the pack thoroughly. I had seen numerous local playing cards, but these were really exquisite. The most essential detail about the whole matter is that the popular local game Intee is not played anywhere else. The playing cards for the game differ from ordinary French ones in two ways: there are different suits, and there are no colour differences, like RED vs. BLACK. The pack is made out of four suits, but they are not the hearts, diamonds, clubs or spades; those familiar signs are replaced by the local ethnographical ones, like vine, blackberry, thistle and dagger. Now I already know, how a dagger fitted into so many herbs, but not then. Vine means grapes, Blackberry stands for fruit, while thistle is a disgusting purple flower, an ugly weed with prickly leaves, which grows so high and mighty along the local country lanes. There are 36 cards in the Johnish packs, and the same was the number all told in mine. But the real Intee should be played with two packs. I can't present all the rules and regulations governing the game, as I am not quite sure of them myself. But what I know for sure, is that there are 9 cards in each suit, and those are not traditional Queens, Kings or Aces. There are four couples of men, women and life-stock though, as well as the heads of a squadron, and various trifles like winehorns, boats, etc. Now, if in the traditional playing cards hearts and diamonds are the good-colour suits, in the Johnish ones we should be all in favour of vines and blackberries, for the rest two are considered to be the evil ones.
Thus was I sitting in great excitement, looking joyously through the precious gift of mine. Being a master of playing cards is a very prestigious and profitable occupation in Santa City. The pictures are all very positive and mysteriously attractive. While studying them with admiration, I found out that they reminded me of Pirosmani, a famous Georgian naive artist, with the similar candid manner of drawing. Every master on the Isles tries to develop his own style, of course, but he can imitate anyone else's very skilfully as well. I used to visit the playing card workshops and watch the craftsmen at their work for hours. I might have been enjoying the pack for a very long while, for I even slumbered over it. In the end I got up and started putting the cards into regular suits – beginning with the lowest ones and ending with the men. I don't know why, but I started with the vines, then passed onto the blackberries, then I saw to the thistles, and then – to the daggers. It all got a shape of elongated rectangle. Generally, the souvenir cards are bigger in size compared to the ordinary ones, and when they made a solid picture, they even looked much better. As far as I know, the souvenir packs are always drawn as solid pictures, and only later are they cut into 36. This might be an old tradition of card-making followed by the islanders. Anyway, this is a hypothetical assumption of mine, and I won't go into that any further. The heart of the matter here is that originally the picture had been solid, and was disintegrated some time later! On wintry nights, in the coastal quarter, one falls asleep to the sounds of waves, thinking some pleasant thoughts. The wintry nights in Porta Nova Street are such as to… Well, I'd better stop here and simply reveal the core: while gradually falling asleep, it suddenly occurred to me to arrange my notebooks like those playing cards – each notebook for each card, with a similar sign on the cover. I didn't know then that I had already written the book. I just liked the idea of turning my notebooks into a pack of Johnish playing cards, perpetuating the marvelous pictures on the covers. But I knew for sure that this was only the initial device, the key to the oncoming wholesome solution. When I arrived in Trabzon, I was met by a friend named Ahmad O.Kaya. I had given him a preliminary call, and he came from Istanbul. He is an old chum of mine, but we can't meet very often these days. So, I was pretty certain he couldn't help reacting to my message. In our boyhood, we used to go in for basketball together, but later he had to emigrate and convert into Ahmad O.Kaya. When I was going to Esperanza, I couldn't find him in Istanbul. It was hardly surprising, for he is always to-ing and fro-ing between this place and another. I am not going to describe the notorious life-story of Ahmad O.Kaya now, but when we entered the inn and started teasing each other jokingly (which we always do, when we come together having missed each other's company for a long time), I told him everything about the notebooks and the playing cards.
It all happened quite naturally. When something bothers you for a long time, you suddenly start discussing it with anyone who turns up at the moment. I started telling it all to Ahmad O.Kaya, the more so that he was my intimate childhood friend. Ahmad O.Kaya had heard about the Isles, but strangely enough, he had never visited them. He had a Turkish passport though, which made it easier for him to get there. In the end, we decided to keep in touch about the matter, in order to arrange our joint trip to the Isles some day… But I still couldn't help speaking about the playing cards and the notebooks. I even showed my friend the pack from Li'le Mattallo, and he studied it with a great interest for a good while. My fresh idea about the notebooks was as follows: There were about one hundred and fifty of them in all, whereas there were only thirty-six cards. So, I decided to rearrange my records, and rewrite them into thirty-six notebooks. Certainly, I could do my best not to abridge my stories or extract any of them, by trying to combine, say, four notebooks into a single one. Afterwards, I would have to choose the proper card name for each, and that would do. But there again I was running a risk of thickening my notebooks to a great extend, which was not at all proper. The playing cards are so thin, and the thick notebooks would lose every likeness to them. I told it all, in my lively and emotional manner, to Ahmad O.Kaya who doesn't care a wee bit about books or any other printed matter (for he never reads anything, including Turkish papers). But Ahmad O.Kaya used to be a General once – he has even won several victories with his army; Ahmad O.Kaya used to be a rascal, a cut-throat and all, and he knows very well how to find the gist. This sort of people have a nose for the most important; they always feel when and where to attack. Otherwise, they are not going to survive. At present, Ahmad O.Kaya has quit all his criminal activities (he made a peaceful owner of a small shop), but his wild instincts have not betrayed him. He still knows the trick of finding the enemy's throat within a second, as any new problem is an enemy to him, and must be defeated. Listening to my story, he suddenly asked me: "Why you wantin' this?" Which can be translated into our language as: "What's all the fuss about it?" I told him it seemed to be more interesting that way. He then said that if there wasn't a definite goal, it was no use turning those notebooks into the playing cards. Why should a book be made out of separate notebooks, if it doesn't serve any particular idea? It's much better to write an interesting book with a solid plot. He didn't explain himself exactly this way, but this was what he meant. Unfortunately, I suspected the same. "Playin' cards, ain't this? Now come, buddy, put them in four row, and you follow the suit…" We put our plates and bottles aside, cleared the space for the cards, and I started putting them in the regular order according to the suits. The vines came first, followed by the blackberries; then came the thistles, and then – the daggers. Ahmad O.Kaya kept observing the location of the cards for some time, slowly smoking his cigarette. Generally, he is not a rapid smoker, and when he smokes, he looks quite thoughtful.
"What's them, cards?" he asked me after a while. Well, really, what are they? A game, I guess. That's what they are. "What has us got alike here? Suits, maybe, and them… yeah, numbers: four sixes, four sevens…" "There are no sixes or sevens here, these cards count otherwise." "But us has ones, and twos, and fours and all, right?" "Right." "So?" "So what? Nil and nought!" "Listen here, is there stories in your… uh… copybooks, hwich be of same, say, suit?" Ahmad O.Kaya slipped his index finger all across the blackberries. "You wantin' cards, ain't you? Here, make them your stories like one suit… You sayin', they draw a big picture on carton, and then cut it all up, right? So, do it same way, man! Draw a big fuckin' picture and cut it up. But mind you – similar numbers, similar stories, from suit to suit!" Ahmad O.Kaya said no more. It was me, who spoke for a long time after that. I was not telling the stories themselves, but I was trying to imagine them in a row, as four long stories of nine chapters told in different colours. "Come on, man! 'tis not enough…" Ahmad O.Kaya shook his head, lit another cigarette, and went on: "Look, there's nine card in one suit, and there's four suit in one pack, right? So, us's four same card: four mans, four womans and all, see? That's hwat us has! Make your stories a foursome, buddy! And mind you, you has to make your big story not only this way long, but this way long too." And he pointed his finger to the horizontal and vertical arrangement of the cards. Such a calculation was too much for me! It was not four stories only, but four plus nine, that would equal unknown quantity x, and the x had to be a solid plot from both – horizontal and vertical angles! Boy! Here one could easily go nuts. "That's them, damn cards! You can make any much gambits you want. That's hwat us calls real game! Come now, start gamblin'!" Ahmad O.Kaya put in his last remark very firmly, and the very next day he saw me off home. How could I resist going to London after that? Ahmad O.Kaya knows everything, and he knows everything for sure. Time and again he calls me, saying: "You had a one buddy, 'member?" He never mentions either his old or new name over the telephone. He is a runaway man, and has changed a lot. Too few care for him in his hometown, to many others he gives a scare, and a lot more simply hate him. At home, they insisted on my leaving at once, for they were afraid of my lunacy. Of course, all were going to miss me once more… Certainly, it was not easy to part again… Sure, it was not the olden times, when a man had to go far away to earn living… And it was but very true that my purse was perfectly exhausted… Even if not so, did I need to have a family only for the sake of talking with someone over the
telephone? or even worse – with the help of the e-mail?! But this is what generally happens, while I'm away. My wife often says that I look much better at some distance (the further away, the better!). But in the close-ups, one can easily notice something crazy in my looks. That's why I always try to keep out of reach of the others. As soon as someone tries to approach me, I start packing my luggage. But this is our family secret. Thank God, I have a few friends of different feather, that don't flock together. During the first month of my stay in London, I hardly ever left my room. I went to a football match once, and that was all. My hosting family often said I was like the hero of one German story, or rather something like a poltergeist. They used to put my food at my door-step, as was the rule in old boarding houses. In short, I behaved like the invisible man, Griffin by the name, from Herbert Walls' fiction. But there was one great difference between us – I didn't go to the Bishop's place to steal things at night. I was sitting in my room all day long, making the list of the stories. I gave a title to every record, to every tiny note. I wrote the titles down on a separate sheet of paper, so that to be able to find out what had each notebook described. Then I found names for each of the thirty-six cards. On the Isles, each card has a short, one-word name; but I needed long, descriptive names for mine. Once again I recalled the naive artist Pirosmani, and invented the names similar to the longish names of his paintings, such as: Sarkiss is pouring wine, or Shatte is stealing a horse, or even longer ones, like: A childless millionaire and a poor peasant woman with her children. This was only a spring-board, the big jump was still waiting ahead. And for that I appealed to the scissors. I had huge pair of scissors with which I started cutting up my notebooks in the most ruthless manner. Then I glued different pieces to one another and fitted them into other notebooks. Then I cut and glued them again… And so passed the days and nights. In the course of these odd activities, I had to write a little, and to make some alterations, and to get rid of the rubbish, and to put aside some episodes that were precious to me, but didn't fit anywhere; I even had to integrate several stories into one, and disintegrate some others into several. I did it all till, at last, I got what Ahmad Goodie had bidden me to get. How did I get it? Well, it's another story… but I got a slight idea about the routine of the film directors, when they lock themselves up in a dark room for a month, while editing a film. But their position is much worse than ours – they can't shoot any more, whereas we can write as much as we wish! Anyway, I did all I could with those Johnish stories: old and new, fictional and documentary, altered and abridged… I endeavored to reduce those one hundred and something notebooks to thirty-six, and made their endings meet. I gave each chapter a name of a card, but I gave individual titles to the nine long and four short stories as well. In this awful to-do about the whole thing, I suddenly discovered that the stories in my new notebooks were quite self-contained, and they didn't necessarily need to be interwoven or linked with the others.
Thus, in the end (it is only fair to tell you), it all resulted in four long, nine short and thirty-six very short stories that could be chosen out of the whole bundle and read separately, leaving the rest untouched. A kind of a small library we are having here, isn't it? Or rather A Thousand and Something Nights. I loved the idea at once! But my passion wasn't so blind as to keep me from writing the contents to which the readers will have to apply (in case they decide to read the whole stuff). But this was not the real end of it all. At that I'll keep you in a little suspense for a while. So, here we arrive at the contents at last! Ladies and Gentlemen, I am happy to present the contents of the book made out of thirty-six notebooks and some additional notes to them. Please, feel free to interrupt me any moment you have some questions or comments! The first COLOUR – SUIT of the Esperanzian playing cards is VINE or GRAPES, to put it the other way round. One bunch of grapes here stands for the lowest card, and the highest is presented by a bailiff holding a bunch of the same in one hand, and a spade in the other. The name of the first STORY – SUIT, consisting of nine chapters, is THE BOOK OF ECHOES OF THE OLD WAYS. There are no romantic or erotic scenes (so much essential to the modern literature) in it. But it describes some important facts from the history and culture of John's Isles (the same as Santa Esperanza), as well as some unforgettable events maintained in the folklore of the natives. It also contains a couple of interesting details that will help keeping the reader enthusiastic, and make him/her glide to the other notebooks eagerly.
2. Brown Booklet N1 1 of Vine
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History The history of Santa Esperanza Isles goes back to the Hellenic epoch, to the remotest times when there were Ancient Greek colonies all along the Black Sea coast. On two small islands of the archipelago, there can still be traced the remains of the Hellenic architecture and life-style. The Ancient Greek name of those islands might have been Hyppolitia, for the name leads to the world of myths and the Queen of Amazons once visited by Hercules himself. It is difficult though, to make any serious assertions about the toponym at present. In the Middle Ages, after decline of the Hellenic civilization, the Isles lost their initial significance. The inhabitants left the territory, and the polis fell into ruins. It was not until the 12th century that the Isles were inhabited again. Santa Esperanza Isles are situated 117 kilometers off the Georgian coast of the Black Sea. In the 12th century, the Georgian King David the Builder (1089-1125) managed to unite small scattered feudal monarchies under his mighty power, thus turning Georgia into a solid and powerful Empire. In spite of being a coastal country, Georgia had never developed navigation. But David the Builder still had spotted the small deserted islands in the open sea, and made every effort to exploit them for his own political goals. The Isles were skilfully turned into a well-pointed spear for the enemies and foes trying to attack Georgia from the sea (see maps). On the main island the King ordered to build a stronghold, the remaining parts of which still stand today (see entertainment/excursions). On the same island there was established an Eastern Orthodox Christian Monastery, named after John the Baptist. Later, it proved to be one of the richest Monasteries throughout Asia. The Monastery is still holding daily services, thus adding credit to the intercultural mood of Santa Esperanza. After decline and collapse of the Georgian Empire, the rulers, courtiers and warriors of The Fort (or St. John's Citadel) became short-distance-sailing pirates, the brave sea-dogs that enjoyed some strong ties with the agonizing Byzantine and Trebizond Empire, as well as with some cities of Crimea and, later on, with the Crimean Khans themselves. According to the Byzantine chronicles, the land referred to as John's Isles was ruled by Archil, a worthy offspring of The Fort Keepers, who declared himself the king of the place in the 15th century. In spite of the fact that the Pirate-King sold the Monastery to Constantinople without any preliminary permission or blessing of the Georgian Patriarch, it still managed to maintain the spiritual and cultural relations with Georgia. By then, Georgia had already been disintegrated into small feudal units again, and suffered from extreme poverty. It might have lost all the links with the sea as well, for there were no cities, villages or even small settlements to be seen within a week's walking distance from the shore. As a logical consequence of the increasing Ottoman aggression, Constantinople collapsed. This was followed by the birth of a new country that noticed St. John's Isles only in the year of
1603. It was Malik Pasha who first sailed for the main island with eight Ottoman galleons and conquered it without any resistance on the part of the islanders. The Fort Keeper, King Solomon, was converted to the Islamic faith, whereupon he was awarded the gown and the title of the Pasha of St. John's Isles. At the same time, he was appointed the commander of Ottoman garrison. In those days, there were about two thousand households living on the Isles. Among them were the military of the garrison, the higher representatives of the raiding sea-dogs, Georgian peasant farmers growing pumpkins and gomie (a staple local cereal crop), several Georgian and Greek monks, and families of Genoese merchants calling themselves Kaffians. One of the real grounds for the Ottomans’ great interest in the Isles should have been the increasing popularity and success of the place in the field of slave-trading that flourished due to the Kaffians. Malik Pasha was an Ottoman of a Georgian origin himself, who was kidnapped at the age of 15 and sold into slavery. For that very reason, he didn't do any harm to the Monastery. In general, Ottomans didn't intend to ruin, destroy or damage the Isles; they mostly sought their fortune there, and that was quite an acceptable and even comfortable condition for all sides. During the Ottoman rule, the Isles established themselves as the link between the Crimean Khans and the Ottoman Empire. It was the major assembly point and trading centre, as well as a favourable place for slave trafficking and distribution. (for more, click here) Guide Today, Santa Esperanza is a tourist attraction drawing visitors from many lands. It is not only a delightful holiday resort for the sun and the sea; the evergreen history of the island gives the visitors a good opportunity to have educational and intellectual holidays as well. This is the place where one can rest side by side with history! On Santa Esperanza, or The State Island, as natives often refer to it, there are two major tourist centres – Westbound Centre and Eastbound Centre. The W-Centre offers the visitors comfortable lodgings downtown, in the heart of the city. The name of the city is Santa Esperanza City or Santa City (though in the airports and documents it registers by its official full name St. John's Fort). The city is not crammed full of State Institutions. The E-Centre offers the visitors a cheaper holiday uptown, in The Bungalowland. It is the most favourable spot for entertaining, sea bathing and sunbathing. The Bungalowland is located along the most peaceful shore near the bay, where the sea is always calm. The holidaymakers can easily join excursions held by different sightseeing agencies from there as well. Santa City has twelve excellent beaches and one more advantage over The Bungalowland: those who are staying there can enjoy living in a magic of a city! Stylish cafes, taverns, smallish restaurants and clubs are all located in the historic parts that embrace three quarters of the city itself. The most significant landmark among them is Captives Square situated between two hills by the side of the sea. The residential districts of the city are mostly built on the slopes of those hills. C-Square branches into numerous streets running across the whole city. Therefore, it is the best point to start sightseeing for those who don't seek for the professional help and prefer to walk around on their own. They are sure to experience a lot of unusual on their way. At the bottom of C-Square, the visitors will find the remains of Hellenic palace preserved under the protecting glass-cover. From here they can start their Mystery Tour of the Glassdome Museum, which is partly located underground, and houses a full exposition of Santa Esperanza's Hellenic Period.
On the southbound hill of C-Square there stands The Fort – one of the perfect examples of the medieval Georgian architecture (12th century), with late Turkish extensions and British interior planning. At present it houses The Museum of History of the Isles. On the northbound hill one can't help admiring the Eastern Orthodox Christian Monastery Complex with the 13th century Cathedral. The whole Complex is surrounded by protecting walls. The interior of the Cathedral is lavishly decorated with the exquisite murals and icons belonging to the brush of the famous Georgian icon-painter Theophillus. On the walls there are well-preserved ancient Georgian and Greek inscriptions as well. The Cathedral is open to non-Christian visitors Tuesday, 2pm-4pm. The Monastery Library available daily. Closed on Mondays. The oldest building in the City Harbour dates at the 15th century and next to it is Kigley Lighthouse (1859). The old part of the city is divided into five quarters: Gayery Quarter (the Big Profit Quarter), The State (the Chief Quarter), Chibuki Quarter (the Pipe Quarter), Genoese Quarter (the Italian Quarter) and The Coast (the Beach Quarter). The State was growing up around the Governor's Palace (19th century) throughout the 19th century. It is mostly a residential district with many small and family hotels. The quarter is very exciting from the standpoint of its architecture: its streets display a fabulous mixture of the Victorian buildings and Georgian wooden verandahs and loggias. On the junction of The State and Gayery Quarter there stands the Mohammed Mosque, a classical sample of the 17th century Ottoman architecture, with two mosaic Minarets. The Gayery Quarter was built by the Ottoman community and its streets still retains the oriental flavour. Those who happen to stroll in this area must taste the extravagant tea and coffee that are hosted at the old coffee shop Teetotallers. Those five quarters are all within an easy walking distance of the C-Square, and a stone's throw from one another. Thus, the visitors can enjoy their daily walking rounds without getting too tired. In case they are lost amongst the hustle and bustle of the city streets, they can easily find their way back with the help of the landmarks that can be observed well from every point: The Fort, The Monastery, The Minarets, The City Piazza Hotel and The Catholic Cathedral of Santa Maria del Esperanza with its silver cupola. The latter indicates termination of The Coast. The Cathedral was built in the 18th century, replacing the former smallish temple. <….> (for more, click here). Hotels and Guest Houses Santa Esperanza accommodation is truly democratic and every type of visitor is catered for. The highest building on the island is a 25-storey "City Piazza" (4 stars). The hotel "Rigotti" is a 7-storey building (5 stars) with the presidential suite, which saw the visits of Aga-Khan, Grace Kelly, Claus Kinski and other celebrities. One can also choose from economical three-star holiday inns and family run hotels. The cheaper accommodation sits alongside the eastbound bungalow network and neighbouring 4storey back-street hotels managed by 8 bureaus. <….> List of hotels, photo images and condition <….> for more, click here List of tourist agencies <….> for more, click here List of tourist firms <….> for more, click here Restaurants, cafes, clubs <….> for more, click here
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State System and Territory The territory of Santa Esperanza is subject to Her Most Excellent Majesty the Queen of England, with an especial status in the Black Sea. In 1857 Colonel U. Ralston, acting on behalf of the British Empire, and Sarri-Beg, acting on behalf of Santa Esperanza, signed the treaty of giving the whole land on a 145-year lease to the British Empire, reserving the citizens' title to their property. Santa Esperanza is led by the Governor (presently, Sir Cecil-Pitchgamer-Monte Cristo) appointed by the Secretary of Foreign Affairs of Britain, with parliamentary consent, on Her Majesty's Service and after Her Royal Will. The Governor is subject to the local Law and the Constitution adopted in 1901. From 1919, the Santa Esperanza Parliament is the Legislative Body with limited powers. Its existence is confirmed by the first amendment to the Constitution. On expiration of the lease, in 2002, Santa Esperanza will be declared a Parliamentary Republic, whereupon the law-making powers of the Parliament will increase. On the island is stationed a limited British garrison as per substituted agreements of 1956 and 1987. The two leading political parties are Conservative and Liberal. The Parliament comprises 31 members. The direction is carried out by the Governor's Office comprising 7 departments. The Supreme Court comprising 7 members carries out the legal proceedings. The members are called Secretaries. Santa Esperanza has national military battalions: Johnish (Georgian), Ottoman (Turkish) and Catholic (Genoese-Italian). They are mostly destined to carry out the ritual operations. On the upper left-hand corner of the Santa Esperanza Flag there is the Union Jack. The rest of the flag space is white with a seven-pointed gold crown in the centre. Santa Esperanza has no National Emblem, but its non-official tokens are the crown, the sun, the moon and a bunch of grapes. The language of the state production is English. At schools there are taught four languages: English, Georgian, Turkish and Italian. The languages of education in the national schools are the students' native tongues, but the rest of the three are obligatory subjects on the curriculum.
All newspapers on the island are English with supplementary pages in three other languages. Santa Esperanza enjoys freedom of religious belief and equal rights for all, though the principle of citizenship is still in force. <….> January 26th , The Crown Day, is declared the national holiday. Demography Santa Esperanza is a multinational State with population of 237 thousand people (after the 1997 census). 58% of the inhabitants are of Johnian (Georgian) origin, they speak Johnish – an overseas dialect of Georgian <….>which lost links with General Georgian in the 14th- 15th centuries. Thanks to the Monastery though, the islanders maintained one of the Georgian systems of characters (script), which is already out of use in modern Georgian. It used to be a special clerical writing referred to as Nuskhuri in Georgia, and Monastic on the island. Presently, Monastic is the alphabet of the Georgian community of Santa Esperanza used by book publishers and for printed matter in general. The Johnish talk is affected by another Georgian regional dialect Mengrelian. Mengrelia is one of the coastal provinces of Georgia, which used to have strong ties with St. John's Isles. Among Johnians there still are many that take their origin in this Georgian province. On Santa Esperanza one can come across Eastern Orthodox Church Christians, Moslems and Catholic Christians – all three in one land – which features perfectly well the whole history of the Isles. By tradition, when the islanders say "Johnians" they refer to the Eastern Orthodox Church Christians only, whereas the Catholic population is known as Genoese, and the Moslems – as Ottomans. The Catholic Christians and Moslems are identified with their ancestors: Italians (viz. Genoese/Genovites/Genoans or Kaffians, after their historical roots) and Turks (the same as Ottomans), as long as co-religionism was synonymous with compatriotism for a long time. 19% of the population are Turks, 10% are Italians and 8% are British, whereas the rest 5% comprises Greeks, Kazaks, Jews and Spaniards. Santa Esperanza is an international and intercultural land. There are many mixed marriages here, resulting in a multitude of international families, which is one of the most extravagant achievements of the country. During the summer time, when the population of Santa Esperanza increases tenfold due to the tourist season, the island attracts not only the holidaymakers but also foreign dailies seeking for a temporary job in the field of service. The natives are never able to cope with the whole scope of work due to the lack of personnel, and some peculiarities of the local tradition. As regards the immigrants, they must take into consideration the principle of citizenship that is still in force on the Isles. It consists in giving the citizenship rights to only those whose ancestors had been registered as local citizens by 1919. The British are also eligible for this official status, while the local citizens are welcome to obtain the British passports as well. The age of the local families, or rather clans is also of huge importance in the principle of citizenship: the noble origin and the antiquity of the clan are the factors that are appreciated and sung praises of. The older the clan, the stronger its ties with the eventful history of the Isles. In this respect, the authority of the five-hundred-year-old clans is incompatible, the four-hundredyear-olds are runners-up, and so on. The Santa Esperanza Constitution does not discriminate any of the citizens, however it reflects the age-factor of the clans pleading their contribution in the life of the islanders.<….>
Society The oldest educational centres of Santa Esperanza must have been submerged in the remote history of the Hellenic epoch. Unfortunately though, none of the data from that period are yet available to us. Later, the Island's mainstream educational institution was the Eastern Orthodox Christian Monastery. When Genoese showed up on Santa Esperanza, they established their national schools and the CatholicCentre of Education. In the 17th century it was again the Catholic missionaries who opened one more school, whereas The Madras was established after the Ottoman conquest. The updated system of education was sought for only in the last quarter of the 19th century, when two English public schools came into being. In 1902 Charles Heyes opened the first institution of higher education – Building Constructors College. Later on, during the twenty-five following years, there was launched a massive literacy campaign by opening six Navyand Engineering Colleges that were linked into Santa Esperanza Heyes Educational Network, referred to as University at present. Charles Heyes Square, Monument and Museum – click here. <….> www.amazon.com Edmond Clever In Search of the Pipe: The Flickering Charcoal Drowned in the Black Sea Milan and Andrews publishers Five stars The Baroness Leslie Prize, awarded for the best book of travel of the year, 2001. Reviews Observer: An exciting and thoughtful book about ingratitude of history, and cheerful people defeated by the myths... The plot is so delicate and transparent as though it is written with a crystal glass pen. Mail: A story about a bizarre place and even more bizarre legend tapping the flow of both the nightmarish past and the splendid sea flavour into your room... Another book by Clever about Santa Esperanza, written to convince the reader that even the world of a tiny island can be inexhaustible and inimitable. Santa City Times: Mr. Clever is a well-known man on the island. It's of little wonder that he perceives the local spirit so deeply and precisely. But still, this is a book written by an alien. Times Literary Supplement: What makes the book so unusual is that everything in it is utterly usual, described by an experienced author. But it all seems even more unusual once you guess it tells about some chimera in a very usual and realistic manner.
Extracts " <...> Out of those four national myths that are still actual and vivid on Santa Esperanza, one tells about the longest pipe in the world. The natives call it "The Huge Smokestack Tale".
The Esperanzian myths are peculiar in three ways: their contents bear a multinational character, their origin is pretty fresh out of history, and they are based on real facts with unreal, mythological endings. The task of tracing the smokestack tale is no sweat at all. In Gayery Quarter of Santa City there is an old-fashioned coffee shop "The Pipe of Ali-Bey and Basila". It is included in all sightseeing tours as a two-hundred-year-old rarity of a cafe all furnished with ebony and ancient stone tables. The coffee here is made after the "Turkish" recipe (known as "Greek" to Europeans), but the stone tables dash all the virtual links with purely Turkish roots. The Turks generally prefer to sit with their legs crossed, which can easily be observed in other coffee and tea shops around. This is a local tradition though, as in present-day Turkey it's very unlikely to see men sitting that relaxed in the public places any longer. Nevertheless, they still practice it on Santa Esperanza, and quite frequently too. It's noteworthy as well that contemporary Turks bear first and last (family) names, whereas on the Isles usage has it that men are still addressed with their first and second (patronymic) names. Anyway, this sort of discrepancy between the two has nothing to do with The Pipe at all. In the depth of the above-mentioned coffee shop, next to the counter, there is a dimly lit place over which a pot-bellied male is presiding. He is wearing a blue shirt, and a huge gold ring is glittering on his index finger. The ring is big enough to drive a nail in quite comfortably. No doubt, he is the owner of the coffee shop Morad-Bey: a grayhaired elderly man with a bushy handlebar moustache. He has been described to me many a time, and I recognize him at once. Morad-Bey's eyes are a pair of shiny jet beads. He is the patentee of the coffee shop name and none of the islanders dare use the same word symphony without his permission. Morad-Bey is well aware of his own drawbacks and virtues. He is the best expert and collector of The Pipe history on the islands, though a bit downhearted for not gaining monopoly on it. "Another Englishman interested in The Pipe issue", he chuckles eye-signaling a boy to fetch me a cup of coffee. I am expected to pay the bill, of course. I was forewarned that I could sit in comfort in the cafe for hours without ordering any coffee. But in case I conversed with Morad-Bey about The Pipe, I would have to take a long swallow of three cups at least, and a puff or two of the famous pipe in between. Three-feet-long pipes of fabulous beauty and a boxful of mouthpieces are set right on the tables for the customers to pick and choose. The utilized mouthpieces are cleaned, decontaminated and sterilized by a special staff of pipe-sweeps, absolutely essential to every coffee shop. There are prints and lithographs all around the walls. Each describes a particular episode of The Pipe history. The drawings by John Cannan are more than a hundred years old and definitely remind of Gustaf Dauret. Morad-Bey asserts that every drawing is unique and has no analogues. But if you are not well aware of The Pipe history, it's pretty useless scrutinizing them anyway.
On special stands there is displayed some old stuff concerned with The Pipe events and three fragments of The Pipe itself. The overdried, soot-covered and dilapidated remains do not stir up any kind of fascination or curiosity in the visitors. "Only nine pieces have survived", Morad-Bey says being sort of envious of it all, " two are in the museum, and four are scattered among different people. They don't want to sell them. Who would? I was lucky in some way though. Initially, our family owned only one piece, but I sweated a lot over buying two more. The seedlings of Great Ali-Bey are our distant kinsmen. I had a couple of cottages in the Bungalowland, so I sold them and purchased the two. These are the laces of Basila's moccasins, and that is the sheath of Ali-Bey's nail-knife. None of the natives can afford having this sort of treasure. The exhibits are all insured. This glass is fire-resistant. At night I switch on the burglar-alarm, to be on the safe side. It is linked up straight with the police department." And still, what's The Pipe to Morad-Bey? " We'll need it again, I'm sure. We'll be badly in need of it, and pretty soon too." Perhaps, the owner of the coffee-shop means the on-coming delicate political atmosphere that is going to engulf the Isles. From 2002 Santa Esperanza will enjoy complete independence and the natives are debating a lot about their geo-political environment – Russia, Turkey and neighbouring Georgia. "NATO, you say?" Morad-Bey falls deep in thought for a while, "No, definitely not! Russia would never let it in here, I believe. If you give newspapers only the onceover, you'll find it out yourself… Besides, We don't need any rockets or tanks, do we? Anyway, there isn't enough room for huge missiles on this narrow strip of land." <...>" "<...> Even the exact dates of the myth are of common knowledge on the Isles: in the year of 1662, Ali-Bey became the Pasha of St. John's Isles. He was a man of the Orthodox Christian origin from Archiliani dynasty. There have never been any Royal dynasties on Santa Esperanza, for theirs were only the dynasties of Fort Keepers. When Ottomans annexed the Isles, they didn't even attempt to replace the native ruler. They might have realized that he was the best one to deal with the land, the sea, the winds and the local situation in general. An appointed Ottoman officer was sure to make a loyal Devteder, but not being an islander, he might shake in his shoes the very moment he stepped on the lookout tower of the Fort sticking out like a sore thumb in the open sea. The only demand the Ottomans set for the Fort Keeper – Solomon Archiliani – was that he should convert to the Islamic faith. The demand was rather conventional though. The Fort Keepers of St. John's Isles called themselves Kings, which was absolutely unacceptable for the Georgian Nobility, but actually they remained mere military leaders and pirates. The Ottoman Law even paid them well and fortified their garrisons. If a Johnish Fort Keeper died, his nearest relation – his son or his brother – inherited his position. A new candidate for the post needed confirmation with the pile of signed manuscripts, stamped scrolls and signet rings sent from Istanbul. Occasionally, it took years of waiting, since the documents relating to the tiny piece of land were often the last on the huge list of various papers introduced to the Sultan. So, in the course of the boring office stationery activities of read-write-sign-stamp type, this issue of little importance was often forgotten. It was a must for the new Fort Keeper to be a Moslem. But on the whole, Moslems had only one advantage over the others – they had the privilege of military service. On the other hand, the non-Moslems were refused
permission to serve in the garrison, and although every Johnian had a nice set of rifles, swords and daggers at home, it would not help them to obtain the pirating licenses. Prior to the Ottoman conquest, there had been created a wide cultural and historic layer on the Isles, all due to the Genoese practices. This is another big lump of the local history: take, for instance, the story of the da Costa family, or the Spaniard, Gines de Pasamonte by the name, who initiated the development of the playing card culture. Strangely enough, the island known to be St. John the Baptist's in Georgia, and called Umit-Calle in Turkey (which translates as "The Fort of Good Hopes") is not recorded by any of these names in the European sources. It's referred to as Santa Esperanza, which means "Holy Aspiration" in Spanish, the name given to the island by the above mentioned poor adventurer Ginnes de Passamonte, the only Spaniard in the whole of the neighbourhood. We seem to be somewhat off the track in search for The Pipe at this point and need a little flashback. Thus, in 1662, Ali-Bey Archiliani, the nephew of the late Fort Keeper Karrakash, became Pasha of St. John's, whereupon he was called Ali Pasha. The islanders claim that there is an old folk song in the overseas Georgia, in which the name "Ali Pasha" already stands for Ali-Bey. I have never travelled to Georgia. This country has been under the Russian and Soviet rules for two hundred years, and Santa Esperanza, in spite of having the Georgian roots and culture, lost all imaginable links with it. For several years now, Georgia has been independent from the Russian dominance, and has gone through a series of civil wars. Each time I try to inquire anything about Georgia, the Johnians frown and become very cautious. As for the old Georgian song, it sings like: "You've betrayed us, Ali Pashaâ&#x20AC;Ś" The individuals such as Ali-Bey are no more in our modern life, and they were scarce even in the Medieval times. This man was nothing like the eye-catching portrayals of heroism: he was neither blind nor ruthless, he wasn't even a poet or a drunkard. The chronicles don't describe any of his military achievement or triumphs. To crown it all, those tiny three islands lost something that shouldn't have been lost â&#x20AC;&#x201C; his grave. The Esperanzians are terribly sorry about it. They might have invented the legend of his extraordinary death in order to conceal their shame and compensate for their loss. The story goes that Ali-Bey jumped into the sea and tried to swim around in search of Basila. But all in vain: he wasn't able to fight the rough sea, nor could he gain the shore, and thus he drowned. Whatever the truth, the scholars name the exact date of his death. Ali-Bey didn't watch the stars, neither did he worry about the shape of the earth; he did nothing specific to make himself a famous person from the Middle Ages. The Esperanzians claim their island to be the oldest seaside resort in the universe, and all thanks to Ali-Bey's shrewdness. Morad-Bey says, with a sort of bitterness in his voice, that there is the portrait of AliBey, which served a model-source for the rest of his portraits painted some two hundred years later. The original was created in Ali-Bey's lifetime by an unknown Italian master, and now is exhibited in the museum. I've seen the portrait: strange clothing, a bit weary face, headgear of turban, a semicircular sword hanging down from a thick plaited belt, and the eyes searching for seaelement.
John Cennan furnished some sixty pictures on the motifs of the Ali-Bey and Basila myth. Cennan, being a real Artist, was all for Ali-Bey's fatal swim after Basila. <...>