Café Con Leche

Tall and still handsome in his early sixties, don Ignacio looked more German than Spanish with neatly trimmed sandy hair graying at the temples, blue eyes, and thick brown moustache turned up in imitation of Kaiser Wilhelm.  Standing ramrod straight on his north balcony, eyes on the custom-made cigar in his fingers, he took another puff.  Pablo entered as don Ignacio raised his head to exhale a great plume that hung like a pronouncement between them.

“Hola, Papá.”

Don Ignacio rubbed the watch again and slipped it into his pocket.

“You love that watch, don’t you, Papá?”

“It will be yours one day, Pablo.  It was my father’s and his father’s before him.”

“I wish I had known him.  He must have been quite a man.”

“He was demanding at the wrong times and weak when he should have been strong.”

“He fought with the rebels,” Pablo said, egging his father on.

“Only once, to capture escaped slaves.”  Don Ignacio bit down on his cigar.  Then turning to his son with a fresh smile, he took the cigar between his fingers.  “Let’s get down to business, Pablo.  You have impressed my managers.”

Pablo shrugged and smiled.

“Notre Dame was worth the cost.  Americans understand business.  Anyway, I’m glad you are fitting in.”  Offering his son a cigar from his humidor, he motioned for him to sit.

Following his father’s ritual, Pablo rolled the cigar between his thumb and three fingers to feel its packing, carefully removed the band bearing his father’s florid signature Ignacio Iglesias, struck a match, and lit the cigar with a long draw.

“Your mother says you’re still seeing the González girl.”

Pablo said nothing as he blew out the blue-gray smoke.

“Not serious, I trust.”

“You know Mamá; she doesn’t like any girl.”

“She said you mentioned marriage.”

“Uh-huh.”  Pablo tried to be nonchalant, but the question was laced with danger.

“Son, you are embarking on a complex career.  Marriage would be a distraction.”

“I waited till I graduated as you asked.”

“You’re barely twenty.”

“Twenty-one, Papá; Mamá wasn’t even seventeen.”

“That was different.  The man is the breadwinner.  You must know many women before you can make an intelligent choice.”

“I don’t need to.  I love her.”

Don Ignacio’s jaw tightened; his face assumed the stony, impassive visage of a field general.  “Don’t you think it’s time you grew up?”

“What are you asking?”

“I’m telling you to forget her.”

“Why?  Why don’t you like her?”

“Not her, Pablo, the match.  With all the fine women in the world …”

When Pablo opened his mouth to speak, don Ignacio barked, “Don’t interrupt!  She isn’t … you know?”

“Oh, Papá!”

“I understand how you feel, Pablo.  She’s attractive, but that is irrelevant.  Understand?”

“No, I don’t.”

Pablo had never challenged his father so directly.  Not accustomed to explaining his decisions, don Ignacio looked away.  “You have met her family, I trust?”

“You’re not still mad at her father?”

“Her father is not the problem.”

“What, then?”

“They simply won’t do.”  Seeing the confused stare on his son’s face, don Ignacio continued, “Your mother spoke with Father Isidro yesterday.  The church keeps genealogical records on prominent families.  Father Isidro had very little on hers.”  Holding up his hand to silence his son, don Ignacio’s voice sank to a whisper.  “Little, but not nothing.”

He rose and turned to face the balcony again.  Turning suddenly to his son he said, “It’s