The Andes Dream-Chapter 229: A Conflict of Cultures

After reaching the mansion that currently served as the center of government, Krugger could not help but sigh.

"Your father truly should construct a proper government building. Using a mansion for this is extremely embarrassing," he muttered as they entered and made their way toward the second floor.

Everyone recognized who Krugger was, though not everyone could speak with him. His Spanish was still limited, and most exchanges required patience. Still, permission was quickly granted for him to go upstairs — especially with Isabella at his side.

"May I ask why it matters so much to have a proper government building?" Isabella asked curiously.

"It matters, Isabella, because a nation is an idea — and an idea needs a home that looks as though it will endure for a thousand years," Krugger replied, his voice echoing through the wide hallway.

He stopped at the top of the staircase and gestured toward the crystal chandelier overhead.

"This?" he said. "This is a merchant’s dream. It speaks of silver, trade, and personal comfort. When a citizen enters this mansion seeking justice, he does not see the Law — he sees your father’s wealth. It invites envy, not respect."

Leaning over the railing, he glanced down at clerks working over what had once been mahogany dining tables.

"A true government building — a palace of state, a ministry — should be carved from austere stone and built with perfect symmetry. It should intimidate. It should make a man feel small, reminding him that the State is eternal, while he is merely a shadow passing through."

"But it’s beautiful, Grandfather," Isabella argued softly, running her fingers along the polished wood.

"Beauty is for fashion capitals, child. A government requires Authority," Krugger answered sharply. "By ruling from a mansion, your father tells the world his power is temporary — a guest in someone else’s house. It suggests that if the money disappears, the government vanishes with it. A stone palace with massive columns, however, tells the people: I am here. I am heavy. I will not move."

He straightened.

"Never confuse a seat of power with a place of pleasure. One is a fortress for the soul. The other is merely a target for revolution."

Isabella considered his words carefully before replying.

"But right now, we are not exactly a nation. We’re only a semi-autonomous region of Spain."

Krugger shrugged.

"That may be true — for now. But your father’s time to choose a side is approaching. I’ve heard the fanatics have appointed a new general, and they are expanding toward Chocó. If they take it, they could push into the entire Citará province."

His tone grew more strategic.

"That is why your plan is useful. It ensures we do not fall behind. We are expanding into the void of power left by the Spanish — but voids do not last forever. In some regions, authority still stands firm. In Caracas, there is a governor who controls Venezuela tightly. In Bogotá, as the capital, the Spanish surely maintain a respectable force of soldiers and loyalists. Taking it would require a costly struggle."

He paused before continuing.

"The Captaincy of Venezuela is the better target. We would face a capable Spanish army, yes — but not the full strength stationed in Bogotá. And if we secure it, we gain our own port. A port would allow Francisco to send supplies, reinforcements, or messages with far greater ease. And they are famous for their marron gold — that so-called chocolate."

Isabella’s eyes brightened instantly.

"I love chocolate! I eat it with sugar and arepas all the time. My brother used to do the same. But after too many late nights, he became more devoted to coffee. before leaving he only drinked chocolate for breakfast."

"You eat too much chocolate," Krugger said sternly, looking down at Isabella. "It invites too much comfort. It is acceptable from time to time, but do not make it an all-day drink. In times of war, too much comfort can become dangerous."

Isabella rolled her eyes. The Prussians, she thought, could find discipline even in a cup of chocolate. She began to wonder how anyone in Prussia survived under such constant rigidity.

"Grandfather," she said, frowning slightly, "I do not like so much pressure from your country. Spanish culture is far more relaxed — more familial. I hope you do not try to change that. I enjoy the warmth, the closeness, the peace that comes with it. The reason I want to become a general is to protect that feeling — not to replace it with something harsher."

Krugger frowned, momentarily speechless.

The cultural clash weighed heavily on him. Through a Prussian lens, he could not help but criticize what he perceived as weakness in the colony. Yet he understood there were lines he could not cross. Spain’s culture ran deep in the Americas. This was not a Prussian colony. Their desire was independence — not transformation into another Prussia.

So he remained silent.

Isabella continued as they climbed the stairs.

"We should take the best of Prussia and the best of Spain and create something new," she said thoughtfully. "And to know what is truly best, we must listen to the people — including you and your men. Not as a general, but as compatriots. My brother’s policies make it clear that immigrants from your homeland will arrive in waves. But I do not want them to change the essence of who we are."

Krugger nodded slowly, struck by the maturity in her words.

Perhaps he had been stubborn — an old soldier fearful of being softened by what he called Hispanic weakness. He had criticized nearly everything. Yet he could not ignore what his officers had reported.

Some of the troops had begun smiling more.

In their free time, they visited nearby towns, drinking with mestizo laborers, dancing awkwardly with local women, even listening to elderly men ramble about their lives — though they understood almost none of it. Such behavior would have been unthinkable in Prussia under Frederick the Great. There, leisure bordered on dereliction. A soldier’s free hours were spent maintaining equipment, taking small civilian jobs, or gambling — which created its own quiet miseries.

But here, morale had risen. The officers admitted it openly. The men returned to camp lighter, more loyal, less brittle.

None of the officers dared oppose it.

And so Krugger knew, however reluctantly, that he too would need to adapt.

He exhaled slowly as they reached the end of the corridor. The polished oak door before him bore the marks of hurried use — faint scratches near the handle, fingerprints in the varnish.

Perhaps change was already underway, he thought.

The door swung open with a sharp bang.

Krugger did not wait for an invitation. He marched inside.

Carlos looked up from his desk, startled. Dark circles framed his eyes from long nights of work. Before Krugger could utter a word, a small girl rusehd forward.

"Father!" Isabella cried, running into his arms. "I miss you. You haven’t come to the estate in almost a month."

Tears shimmered in her eyes.

Carlos’s headache sharpened at her words. If anyone suffered most during these chaotic times, it was his daughter. Francisco had enjoyed his father’s company throughout his youth, only leaving the continent at fifteen. But Isabella, at twelve, was already living a quieter, lonelier life. If not for Krugger’s presence, her solitude would have been far worse.

"I’m sorry," Carlos said softly, kneeling to embrace her. "You must understand how complicated everything has become. It isn’t that I wish to leave you alone. It’s that everything now converges here — the immigrants arriving each month, the factories, the gold, the trade routes. Some days I wish I could divide myself in two — one to sit in this chair, the other to walk with you in the fields."

He sighed.

He missed his former life as a merchant. Though he had been busy then, the work had rhythm. Travel meant long days on horseback, not endless documents. There had been space to breathe — even months at a time to spend with his family. Now, if a single paper went unread or a decision was delayed, consequences rippled outward. The weight of responsibility pressed too heavily to allow rest.

Isabella nodded quietly.

"I understand," she said. "But you should visit, even if only sometimes. Grandma Maria misses you. She worries about your health."

Then, as if remembering something, her small fingers slid gently around his wrist, settling where the blood pulsed beneath the skin.

She closed her eyes.

Carlos instinctively tried to pull away.

"Father, stay still," she whispered.

She was not holding his hand as a daughter now, but as an observer. As grandma Maria had taught her, she listened to the rhythm beneath the skin — the thunder of the blood.

She felt it.

Too fast. Uneven. Strained — like a horse driven too hard uphill.

His skin was dry and warmer than it should have been in the cool morning air.

"Your pulse is hollow, Father," Isabella said, her voice lowering, worry clouding her face. "Grandma Maria calls it the ’ghost beat.’ You are here in your chair... but your spirit is being stretched too thin. If you do not see her — if you do not let the mountain air wash the smell of ink from your lungs — you may grow worse. You need to go today."

Carlos frowned.

He had felt unwell lately, but had dismissed it as mere fatigue. Yet seeing the seriousness in Isabella’s small face — and knowing Maria stood behind such words — he realized he could not ignore it.

He drew a slow breath and nodded.

"I will send for her," he said gently. "You do not need to worry."