The café was dim and thick with smoke. Catalina pinched her nose while Francisco frowned. He had expected an intellectual place—bright, clear, alive with scholars debating, even women or mestizos and Indians taking the initiative. But in reality, nearly everyone was criollo, Spaniards born in New Granada. No other ethnic groups were present, and the air was so clouded with smoke it was hard to breathe. Still, the political tension was unmistakable: some criollos debated about freedom, others defended monarchy, and a few even read aloud from a copy of La Gaceta de Madrid.
"Welcome, sir and madam," a waiter said politely. "Where would you like to sit?"
Francisco thought for a moment. "By a window—and if possible, with it open."
"Please, this way." The waiter led them to a table near the window and opened it for them.
"What would you like to drink?" he asked.
"I'll have a tinto, black, with two spoons of sugar. My companion will take a perico with three spoons. And bring us two almojábanas."
The servant soon returned with steaming cups and the pastries. Francisco ate his almojábana with coffee while listening to the debates around them.
One man raised his voice: "Morals must come before anything else! Even the poor should keep a good outlook on the world. We must be dutiful toward God and feed the spirit before the body."
Francisco frowned, then let out a sharp laugh. "Pff."
The man turned, half furious. "Why do you laugh? And who brought a woman here—and worse, a mestiza?" He glared at Catalina sitting beside Francisco.
Francisco's temper flared. "So our little man feels threatened by a woman? I bring whoever I want, wherever I want."
"Pff. Seems you've spent too much time with savages—you've grown aggressive over a small remark," the man sneered.
Francisco leaned forward. "So you think letting others insult your family while staying calm is more civilized? Then those 'savages' you disdain show more respect and filial piety than a so-called civilized idiot like yourself."
"How dare you compare me to them!" the man roared.
"Why not? You have two eyes, a nose, a mouth, two arms, two legs. Cut you now, and I'm sure your blood runs red, just like theirs." Francisco sneered, calm but cutting.
"Of course not! I am pure Spanish—chosen by God to bring civilization to these savage lands. They are nothing without our knowledge!" the man insisted with arrogance.
"Chosen by God?" Francisco scoffed. "Do you really believe that? Don't you know civilizations already existed here? The Empire itself borrowed from them—water canals, terraced farming, guano as fertilizer, even medicines and foodstuffs. Without them, much would have been lost."
"That—that's false! Spain invented all of that!" the man stammered, but his voice faltered.
"Bah. You don't even know what wisdom came from this land, yet you still claim superiority. Even dogs know how to be grateful," Francisco said with contempt.
The man's face flushed crimson. No one had ever dared insult him so openly. Around them, onlookers whispered—some recognizing Francisco, and murmuring about his father, the man bold enough to defy the viceroy
Another gentleman, calmer, stepped forward. "Forgive my companion's rudeness. I, too, believe in equality. But tell me—why did you laugh at the idea that morals and spirit should take priority over material life?"
Francisco's anger softened. "No offense taken. But let me ask you: have you ever truly seen the lives of the poor?"
The young man admitted, embarrassed, "Not much. I spend too much time in government offices."
"Then answer this truthfully: if tomorrow your family and you were starving, would you spend your days thinking about God and ideals? Or would you do everything in your power to find bread?" Francisco asked solemnly.
The man hesitated. It was the first time someone had drawn his family into the question. He remembered his mother's sweet smile, his father's constant support. Finally, he said bitterly, "To be honest, I could not. Filial duty is harder than stone. I would abandon ideals to feed my family."
Francisco smiled. "Exactly. When material life is lost, it is not only us who suffer, but our wives, children, brothers, and parents. And even if you have no family now, one day you may. How could you help them—or anyone—without food or money? That is why, without sustenance, ideals are impossible."
The young man thought for a moment. "But if all we do is chase money, we risk ignoring family and harming others. Wouldn't that be worse than clinging to ideals, even in hunger?"
Francisco nodded. "Fair point. But why must it be either-or? Why not pursue wealth and keep our morals? True, not everyone can balance both. Many grow selfish. But instead of demanding that men abandon money for ideals, wouldn't it be wiser to demand they build wealth while maintaining virtue? With resources, we not only feed ourselves but can help others as well."
"Interesting… but how can you guarantee you'd keep your morals?" the young man pressed.
"You can't. Just as you can't guarantee you'd keep faith without food. You and I are fortunate—we were raised without scarcity, so it is easy for us to speak of ideals. But how many could truly live without bread? Could you abandon your salary and family support for even a month, starving, and still swear to keep your sanity?"
The young man lowered his gaze. "No. You're right. It's easy to praise faith in comfort, but I don't know if I could endure suffering."
Francisco nodded solemnly. "That is why saints are rare. They lived in suffering for their ideals, and they can be counted on our fingers. The greatest among them is Jesus himself. But can anyone here truly guarantee to be as pure as Christ? If not, it is impossible to demand the impossible."
Faces around the café grew solemn. Then someone asked, "But shouldn't we at least try to follow his steps, even if imperfectly?"
Francisco paused, then said:
"There is a beautiful story of Jesus near the Sea of Galilee. Jesus and his disciples had gone to a remote place, but a huge crowd of people followed him to listen to his preaching. As evening fell, the people were hungry and had nothing to eat. His disciples asked him to send the people away to the villages to buy food, but Jesus replied, 'You give them something to eat.'
Taking just five loaves of bread and two fish, he looked up to heaven, gave thanks, and broke the food. He then gave it to his disciples to distribute to the crowd. In this way, he miraculously fed five thousand men, plus all the women and children present.
He never said, 'You should maintain your ideals on an empty stomach.' He did not ignore their physical hunger. He directly multiplied the food and fed everyone. Why? Because he knew that without food, people cannot maintain their strength, their hope, or their faith. Jesus knew this himself, and his compassion moved him to act."
The crowd was speechless. They had read the story before, but never seen it in that light. After all, the debate between ideals and survival was new. Yet it made sense: why didn't Jesus simply let them endure hunger? Why did he sit and eat with them himself? Because even faith requires bread.
"Thank you for that wisdom," the young man said quietly. He extended his hand. "I am Fernando Valenzuela y Manrique, of the Valenzuela y Manrique family. You've given me much to reflect on. I hope we meet again."
Francisco shook his hand firmly. "A pleasure. I'll be in Bogotá for some months—we can continue this discussion."
They nodded, and Fernando left with his companions. Francisco watched him go. A waiter approached. "Sir, the owner would like to speak with you. He's on the second-floor balcony."
Francisco thanked him and made his way upstairs, ignoring the whispers that followed in his wake.