Chapter 232: A Rare Day of Rest for the Gomez–Krugger Family

Amelia stepped down from the carriage behind Carlos. The fresh mountain air brushed against her face, cool and clean after the warmth inside the carriage. For a moment she closed her eyes, breathing deeply, but the pleasant sensation quickly turned into mild irritation.

She looked toward the river and complained.

“Since you built that factory, the river inside the city has become dirty. Some women have been complaining about it. Now they have to go farther upstream just to wash their clothes. A few of them even gave up and started using well water instead.”

She gestured toward the clear pools ahead of them.

“Seeing this place only shows how different it used to be… and how badly the factories are affecting it. Especially the Roman cement factory.”

Carlos frowned slightly when he heard that. He had heard the complaints from the people of Medellín before, but there was little he could do about it. The gold flowing from the Roman cement factory was essential for the family.

It paid the troops.

It paid for reconstruction.

It paid the necessary bribes to certain elites who preferred stability as long as their pockets remained heavy.

It even funded the loans given to mestizos and Indians who were now buying steel-coated tools.

Then Carlos remembered the steel factory Ogundele was trying to finish. His headache grew worse.

According to Ogundele, the dirt and smoke produced by the steelworks would be far worse than the cement factory. The smell alone would be strong enough to travel across half the valley.

“It’s the price of progress, honey,” Carlos finally said with a sigh. “If we don’t build those factories, we won’t have the money or the tools to achieve what we want.”

He looked toward the surrounding hills, where forests of guadua bamboo and tall trees covered the slopes.

“And it will get worse. We need to cut a lot of trees to make the steel factory viable.”

Amelia sighed softly.

“Is there really no other way to bring progress without damaging the river?”

Carlos shrugged.

“Not that I know of. But I can talk to Francisco. That boy always had crazy ideas. Maybe he can think of something.”

Then he clapped his hands lightly and forced a more relaxed tone.

“Enough of that. The Medellín is kind today. We should enjoy the day. I don’t want to think about politics anymore.”

He scanned the riverbanks carefully, his eyes moving through the willows and thick clusters of guadua bamboo.

“The current is slow enough for a bath,” he said. “But it seems there are women washing clothes and some children playing nearby. We’ll have to walk upstream if we want privacy.”

Carlos walked back briefly to whisper something to one of the servants. Then he returned and gently took Amelia’s hand.

As if remembering something, he removed his leather boots and replaced them with a pair of alpargatas. Amelia followed his example, changing into light chinelas. With the softer footwear they could walk more easily across the smooth river rocks.

As they passed, Carlos gave a small respectful nod toward a group of women gossiping near the water. The women paused their conversation and watched the couple with curiosity.

Two robust servants followed behind them.

After fifteen minutes of walking along the riverbank, they reached a secluded place where a small waterfall spilled into a clear swimming hole. The water shimmered with a jade-green color beneath the afternoon sun.

Amelia’s eyes lit up immediately.

Without hesitation she jumped into the water.

The heavy fabric of her camisola made swimming difficult, but the cold river water felt refreshing against her skin.

Carlos laughed when he saw her struggling and jumped in after her.

Soon they were splashing each other like children.

Outside the pool, the servants kept watch, scanning the surrounding trees with disciplined caution. Carlos was famously relaxed when it came to his own safety, which meant the responsibility of worrying fell entirely upon his men.

Some time later, another group of servants arrived carrying a large clay pot, vegetables, and a live chicken that struggled furiously while a servant held it by the legs.

They began preparing lunch.

Two servants filled the pot with river water and placed it over a small fire pit built with dry guadua branches. Soon the flames crackled loudly as the water inside the pot began to hum with rising heat.

A servant stepped forward holding the chicken.

With one swift motion of a sharpened blade, the struggle ended.

The bird was quickly dipped into boiling water to loosen the feathers. The smell of wet poultry mixed with the sharp scent of wood smoke drifting through the air.

Meanwhile, Amelia sat on a nearby log watching with fascination.

The servants’ knives moved quickly and confidently. Potatoes were peeled with incredible speed, the skins falling to the ground in thin spirals of brown earth.

Then came the green plantains.

Instead of slicing them cleanly, the servants used their thumbs to break them into chunks. The technique allowed the starch to release slowly into the broth, thickening it into a rich, velvety texture.

“The plantain is an interesting ingredient,” Carlos said casually while watching the white pieces splash into the pot. “Did you know it came from Asia? Or maybe Africa. Something like that.”

He shrugged.

“Without it the flavor wouldn’t be the same. It would be bland, at least for my taste.”

Finally the chicken, now cleaned and cut into pieces, was added to the pot. Fat slowly rose to the surface, forming golden circles that shimmered like coins.

A servant added coarse salt from the mines of Zipaquirá along with a bundle of cilantro and scallions tied together with a piece of twine.

“It will need an hour of strong boiling,” the head servant said calmly. “The yucca must become soft enough to melt, but the plantain must keep its shape.”

Amelia leaned back slightly. The warmth of the fire slowly dried the river water from her skin.

For the first time in her life, she was watching food transform from a living creature into a meal.

As the daughter of a powerful landlord she had always lived surrounded by servants. When she married, her husband had done the same—nannies, cooks, maids for everything.

Even after becoming a widow and gaining more personal freedom, she had never truly experienced something as simple as watching a meal being prepared from beginning to end.

There was something strangely magical about it.

The smell alone made her stomach growl.

Curious, she asked Carlos:

“Do you know who invented this dish? I’ve heard mestizos and slaves eat it… but also rich merchants. Even my father said he loved a good cocido or olla podrida when he was young. I was always curious.”

Carlos smiled.

“It’s a combination of cultures,” he explained. “The Spanish already cooked meat with legumes. The indigenous people here had something similar using corn, yucca, and potatoes.”

He gestured toward the pot.

“When the Spanish arrived, the traditions mixed. Later the Africans—and even Asians—brought plantains to these lands, and we added them to the dish.”

He paused before adding quietly:

“Of course, to really enjoy it you need good ingredients. What many mestizos or slaves eat isn’t exactly the same. Sometimes they can only afford a bone to give flavor.”

Amelia nodded thoughtfully.

Then she smiled.

“I like seeing you like this,” she said. “Confident and happy. You should act like this more often.”

Carlos chuckled.

They enjoyed their meal by the river, the sounds of water and crackling fire blending with the smell of herbs and chicken broth.

For the first time in many weeks, Carlos felt truly relaxed.

But he wasn’t the only one having an unusual day.

En las streets de Medellín, Kruger estaba en una situación bastante incómoda.

Walking beside a young twelve-year-old girl while being a large, burly German man attracted far too much attention. People stared at him with suspicious expressions, some whispering among themselves.

A few extremely religious old women even covered their eyes as if merely looking at him might corrupt their souls.

Kruger didn’t understand the exact words they were whispering, but judging from their angry looks he was certain they were cursing his entire family.

The tension only disappeared when Isabella suddenly spoke loudly in Spanish.

“Grandfather, let’s go to the plaza. I used to play there with some friends. I want to see how they’re doing.”

Then she repeated it in German.

Kruger sighed in relief.

The moment the crowd realized the girl was his granddaughter, the suspicious looks softened into friendly smiles.

“People here gossip too much,” Kruger muttered. “I was afraid your father’s soldiers would come arrest me.”

Isabella laughed.

“I once heard Grandma María say that in New Granada gossip can be a silent killer. Some people have been pushed to death by aunties and old women spreading rumors.”

Kruger blinked.

“That’s why no one dares to insult old ladies here,” Isabella continued. “Even Spanish soldiers avoided them. Once an old woman starts talking, everyone looks the other way.”

Kruger was speechless.

In Germany gossip was mostly harmless entertainment. But here it seemed capable of destroying reputations—and possibly lives.

He silently swore to himself that he would never anger the old women of New Granada.

Soon they reached a small open area where several children were playing.

Isabella immediately recognized two of them.

“Tomas! Ramiro! You’re here. Where are the others?”

The boys looked surprised to see her.

Since Francisco had left for Europe they hadn’t seen Isabella for quite some time.

“Isabella! You’re back!” Tomas said excitedly.

Rodrigo nodded.

“Most of the others are working now,” he explained. “Since those people from Europe arrived, there are more small jobs in the city.”

Isabella blinked in surprise.

“Working?”

“Yes,” Tomas continued. “Some kids guide immigrants to shops, others deliver messages. Camilo even sells newspapers for a company from Bogotá.”

Rodrigo shrugged.

“We’re lucky. Our parents own a shop, so we only help sometimes… and play the rest of the day.”

Isabella stared at them with wide eyes.

In her memories they were mischievous boys who spent their days running through the streets.

Her father always said work was difficult and required maturity.

Looking at them now, she struggled to imagine those same children working like adults.

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