Like father, like son

 "My son!" he said grinning from ear to ear. "I want you to meet him."

The young man flashed a big and bright smile that outshone his nanna's grin and put out his hand to shake mine. He looked bent and frail, and his lean and hungry look reminded me of Cassius. The father left us with an expression of accomplishment on his face.

The young man didn't seem to believe in exchanging pleasantries beyond a perfunctory handshake. He didn't even allow me to introduce myself. He got down to business. He spoke about himself. He spoke about his wife. He spoke about his job in Germany. He spoke about German society of which, he was at pains to point out, he was part. He spoke about German culture vis-à-vis himself. And he spoke about the German language -- his own mastery of it rather.

The monologue went on, and it seemed like an eternity. Somewhere a cell phone rang. Behind me a car screeched to a halt, a dog yelped as if hurt, and someone cursed. Now the electronic bell from the control room let off a piercing scream announcing the lunch break, and students spilled out of classrooms. There was an outbreak of riotous laughter in the corridor in front of me. Teachers were pushing their way through the crowd. The attendant came and asked me if he could close the door and turn the AC on. I shook my head and smiled ruefully.

But nothing disturbed the young man's tapas; he spoke and spoke, completely absorbed in himself. "In any given week," he was intoning when I turned my attention to him, "I find myself at the Frankfurt Airport waiting to catch a flight to London or Paris or New York or Abu Dhabi."

"Or Vatican City or Monaco," I added two airportless cities. He paused reflectively for a moment and then smiled in affirmation.

"You're just like your father," I said, determined not to lose that opportunity. "The yarns you spin are as enchanting as his."

This was completely lost on him. Just as I had expected. He picked up where he left off and launched into yet another lengthy account of his work. "In my company, my..."

Ten minutes passed and the speaker was still gabbling away. I rose from behind my desk, stretched my cramped limbs, yawned wearily, and checked my cell phone. But the gasconade continued. I gazed fixedly at the huge clock in front of me on the wall and said in a firm tone of voice, "If you will excuse me..."

This worked. The speaker suddenly remembered an online meeting he was scheduled to address in a few minutes. He didn't, of course, leave without blabbering about the importance of the meeting.

"How did you find my son?" asked the father when he met me in the evening expressly for this purpose.

"Oh, he's just like you," I said. "A great speaker," I added after a moment's pause.