Shades of San Victoria

My name is Frank Delmon and I'm an attorney. Last year I presided over the reading of the will of Donald Potter, a notorious misanthrope and reputed to be the grouchiest man in the world. The few who knew him saw him grouchy and poor. It wasn't until I read the will that the single person present said he wasn't poor, he was stingy.

The reason Brad Potter was in the room at all was because everyone thought why go to the reading when the ole grouch has nothing to bequeath? He didn't have enough money to live on, what could he possibly pass on but his opinion of how rotten the world was? That and because Brad and I knew each other and I told him it'd be best if a member of the family heard the reading if for no other reason than to bring closure to the old man's miserable life.

Before I did my duty, Brad and I talked about our mutual interests. Baseball and how the Cardinals were doing, if the Packers had a chance in the Super Bowl, and how about that Tiger Woods, he's only twenty-some and breaking records right and left. We casually chatted about old times because we both felt like everyone else, that the will was insignificant. We were both amazed, however, when we heard the terms.

Lawyers become immune to weird wills. Fortunes being left to charities, to pets, to total strangers. I've heard of three cases where the

deceased ordered that their entire estates be divided equally among everyone who attended their funeral. It wasn't surprising, then, to learn that Donald Potter's worldly possessions were to be divided among everyone at the reading of the will. But that's not what caught Brad and me the most: It was that the deceased, purportedly so poor he didn't have a proverbial pot, was actually a multimillionaire. Brad was wide-eyed when he realized that the entire sum went to him.

"Where in God's name did the old coot get that kind of money?" Brad asked.

"The stock market," I said, showing him the old man's investments. "He was a pauper by choice. He put every single penny in his stocks. I doubt if he knew what he was worth --- look at the wording: "I bequeath everything I own, little as it is, to those who attend the reading of the will." "I bet he thought he was poor too."

The bonanza left Brad speechless. To break the ice, I offered to celebrate by cracking open a bottle of Couvasier, Napoleon's special cognac. After a few glasses, our talk loosened up.

"You know, Frank, the family holds that ole Grandpa beat Scrooge in nastiness. The ole codger once said that the only thing worse than dying is living. Lord, what a philosophy to go by."

As we sipped our brandy, Brad revealed more idiosyncrasies of the crusty, old man who reputedly didn't leave his house or talk to anyone for his last fifteen years.

"My aunt says that brother Don only told two jokes in his life, and both sickies. One was The Hypochondriac's Tombstone Epithet: I told you so."

"No wonder you're the only one who came to the reading. What was the other joke?"

Brad poured another cognac, took a deep sniff, and chuckled. "This one

my uncle said old Donald told him years ago at his wife's funeral:

Doctor: I have bad news and worse news.

Patient: So what's the bad news?

Doctor: You're going to die in twenty-four hours.

Patient: What could be worse than that?

Doctor: I forgot to call you yesterday."

With that and the cognac under out belts, I think the two of us would have spent the night telling jokes had he not wanted to bring closure to the will. I suggested that he open a trust making all Porter relatives benefactors in case of a family feud. As benefactors, each member might receive some of the fourteen million, and that would keep tempers down once the amount became public. I told Brad there was nothing to worry about since he legally owned it all and was protected by being the President of the fund, and that he alone could determine how much each benefactor received, if any. Having signed all the papers, we were about to return to the Couvasier, when Brad got serious.

"Frank, you know why the old man loved the hypochondriac joke? The word was that the crusty geezer had ten or twelvemajormedical malfunctions. He had cancer, heart trouble --- clogged arteries and a couple bad valves --- acute diabetes, bleeding ulcers, the beginnings of gangrene, a bushel of tumors, and God-only-knows what else. Aunt Laura sometimes wondered if he was a saint in a sinner's suit because he kept to himself so no one would hear his aches and pains. She was surprised he lived as long as he did."

"The only time I talked to Donald Potter," I contributed, "was when he came to register the will. He said something that caught my ear and is even more telling now that I've heard his jokes and ailments. He said there was only one character in all the books he'd read that he could

identify with. It was the old bugger inThe Secret of San Victoria."

"I've never read it," admitted Brad.

"Well, it's about what happens in a remote Italian village during the Second World War. San Victoria produces a million bottles of wine a year. The Nazi's hear about it and move in to confiscate. The villagers do everything to keep the whereabouts of the wine secret. Finally the Germans give up, but the chief Gestapo says he can placate headquarters only if someone dies. So the villagers decide that an old geezer who's dying from cancer anyway should act as a scapegoat. I think the guy was the spitting image of your uncle. Anyway, he agrees, and they put his name on every slip of paper of the death lottery. The San Victorians figure that way the Nazi's wouldn't know it was a set-up. Well, the old bugger gives an Oscar-winning performance when he faces the firing squad. Yes, I can see how Potter identified with him."

We both eyed each other and glanced at the Couvasier. "Hey," said Brad smiling, "it's not every day a guy becomes a millionaire."

We drank happily, knowing that like the villagers in San Victoria, Brad was given new life because of a grumpy old bugger.