Chapter 37: Plaza Mayor de Bogotá

After a restful night, Francisco decided to take Catalina to one of Bogotá’s most famous spots: El Café de la Unión. It was a place where free-thinkers debated without fear, and Francisco was eager to hear what ideas Bogotá’s intellectuals carried.

Walking through the city, he felt a strange contradiction—two worlds living in uneasy harmony. Intellectuals who openly despised Spain moved about freely, yet Spanish soldiers patrolled the streets, chasing thieves or runaway slaves.

“How do you see the Plaza Mayor?” Catalina asked curiously. “It looks larger than before. I remember when we were children, you loved to come here and watch the crowd. Your father was furious with you for taking such risks, but you always insisted—face full of righteous indignation—that this was the capital of New Granada and no thief would dare strike here.” She teased him with a smile at the memory of his naïve confidence.

Francisco blushed. “You can’t judge me. Back then, I truly believed this was the safest place in New Granada.”

Catalina chuckled. “Until you were nearly kidnapped. If not for your father’s secret servants watching over you, you might have spent your life working for some other landlord, painted in shadows.”

Francisco tried to change the subject. “Look, I remember you once said you wanted a sheep’s wool manta. I promised I’d buy you one someday. Come, let’s choose one.”

Catalina rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. They were accompanied by several servants—going out alone as an unmarried man and woman would have been scandalous. Presenting Catalina as his assistant was still unusual, but less damaging to her reputation.

A street vendor greeted them cheerfully. “Good day, sir. Looking for a blanket?” Spotting Francisco’s fine clothes, he quickly added, “If it’s luxury you want, there’s a store on Calle de la Concepción. Tell them Pedro sent you—I get a little commission if my clients go there.”

Francisco smiled, slipped him a coin, and they headed for the shop. Inside, the merchant showed humble courtesy to Francisco while sneering at Catalina and the servants. Francisco had no patience for such people. He went straight to the point. “I want the most expensive blanket you have.”

The merchant’s eyes lit up. “Of course, sir. We just received one from Spain.” A servant brought out a magnificent red manta—the rare cochineal dye glowed with the color of empire. It had taken thousands of insects to create.

“It’s beautiful,” Catalina breathed.

“How much?” Francisco asked.

“150 pesos, though I could lower it to 125.”

After haggling, Francisco brought the price down to 105. He handed the money over. “Send it to the Gómez estate.”

The merchant’s eye twitched. A mestiza wrapped in a blanket worth 105 pesos—he thought it scandalous. But he said nothing; merchants knew better than to judge their clients.

As they left, Francisco noticed a well-dressed man shadowing them. At a crossroads, he sent his servants one way and led Catalina the other. The man hesitated, then followed Francisco—only to find himself staring down the barrel of a pistol.

“Wait, sir, it’s a misunderstanding!” the man cried.

Francisco gave a signal, and two servants seized the stranger. They searched him, finding two swords and a knife.

“This looks ceremonial,” Francisco frowned, examining the jeweled blade. “Pretty, but useless in a fight.”

The man blushed. “Because it is ceremonial. Please, let me explain. My name is Arturo Sandoval. I deal in goods that are officially prohibited, but widely desired.”

“Go on,” Francisco said, unimpressed.

Encouraged by Francisco’s indifference, Arturo relaxed. “I approach well-dressed gentlemen like yourself. I’d just finished a deal in the blanket shop when I overheard your purchase. I thought perhaps another sale could be made, so I followed—forgetting how suspicious the rich can be. Forgive me.”

“And how do I know you’re telling the truth?” Francisco asked. “What if I release you and your men appear to attack us?”

Arturo pulled out a folded sheet. “Here—letters of introduction from Bogotá’s most prominent families, with their seals. Proof of trustworthiness.”

Francisco studied it carefully. “Aren’t they afraid you’ll misuse these seals for crime?”

“These are secondary marks,” Arturo explained. “They hold no legal weight. If the Crown discovered them, the families could simply deny knowledge.”

That made sense. “So, what are you selling?”

“Emeralds,” Arturo said eagerly. “The finest stones from the mines of Cuzo. Some administrators prefer to sell on the black market, avoiding royal taxes. They hire us to move them.”

Francisco thought for a moment, then nodded. “Very well. Go to the Gómez estate. Tell the servants you’re selling emeralds for the young master. Bring only your finest.” He returned Arturo’s knife and sword.

Afterward, Francisco and Catalina wandered the plaza, buying clothes. Their purchases drew curious stares, but Francisco ignored them. They ended up in a bookstore. Most titles were dull, sanctioned by the Crown—children’s stories, romances. Catalina and Isabella would enjoy them, but Francisco found little of interest.

“How much?” he asked.

“Forty pesos,” the bookseller replied. Then, lowering his voice: “But perhaps you’re interested in… other works.” His eyes gleamed.

Francisco understood at once. Unlike most merchants, who would frown at impropriety, this man saw opportunity.

“What do you have?”

The bookseller listed twenty titles, but only two caught Francisco’s attention: The Wealth of Nations by Adam Smith and Teatro Crítico Universal by Benito Jerónimo Feijóo, the Spanish monk. Francisco knew that Catholic authorities often dismissed Protestant knowledge out of self-interest, but Feijóo was different—he valued ideas wherever they came from. Even as a monk, he was more enlightened than many intellectuals. Francisco paid the extra 150 pesos for both books.

after a while they sat together in the fountain,a little exhausted the servants brought two cups of water of a peddler in the market

Later, he and Catalina rested by a fountain, exhausted. Servants brought them water from a market vendor. Francisco sat quietly, watching the lively crowd. People bustled with laughter, anger, and worry. He wondered what they felt most: joy, sorrow, or simply hunger. Suddenly, his eyes lit up.

“Without food or basic necessities,” he murmured, “people cannot afford ideals.”

He asked for paper and wrote: When people are hungry, when they lack even the minimum necessities, they cannot think of the future—for them, the future may mean starving tomorrow. Only when those basic needs are fulfilled can people begin to imagine what lies ahead.

He kept writing, filling a page with reflections on the link between food and ideals, until exhaustion stopped him. Handing the paper to a servant, he said softly, “Keep this safe.”

“Let’s go—it’s time to visit the famous café,” Francisco said, feeling happy after his break.

Finally, they arrived at their destination: a grand colonial house, arranged entirely for open discussion. Liberals gathered freely to speak their minds. Everyone knew the viceroy was aware of this place, yet he never closed it—he merely forbade his inner circle from attending. It was the very image of contradiction in the capital.

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