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By Newsweek Editors
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Before I moved to France, my accountant warned me that Freddy Krueger, the undying villain from "A Nightmare on Elm Street," was modeled after the French tax man. Every year he creeps into my financial dreams sporting that broad-rimmed chapeau and knife-spiked glove to gut all my sweat equity. Aside from paying an income, sales and dwelling tax, I'm slapped with a sin tax for watching French-dubbed reruns of "Friends" and "Baywatch." Luckily (or not), I don't qualify for the dread *impot sur les grandes fortunes--*a.k.a. the "wealth" tax--since my net worldwide assets are well under 732,000 euros. But if I did, I'd certainly do what many French do: invest in a money-losing French film or fishing company and reap the whopping write-off for supporting la grande culture.
Still, the tax slash hurts. To assuage the pain, I've considered buying a post-office box in Dubai or becoming a subject of the Queen of England, giving me carte blanche to the tax havens of the Channel Islands, not to mention neighboring Monaco. I've also been tempted to cheat, like so many of my adopted countrymen. Even with stiff penalties, it's rampant. The national exchequer estimates that France loses 50 billion euros to tax dodgers each year--and I suspect the real amount is far greater.
My town, a sleepy Riviera fishing village blessed by Saint Jean and now dotted with villas owned by the Romanovs and the great Gatsbys, cheats big time. Once I tried to buy a fixer-upper with a partial view of the sea and discovered that the owner required 50,000 euros in cash on top of the purchase price. My real-estate agent told me that many people go to closings carrying Pampers diaper bags stuffed with low denominations of argent noir. When the notary steps out of the conference room to powder his nose or "arranger les affaires," everyone winks as the bag slides under the table.
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Fearing I would actually need a nappy during this illegal exchange, I declined to pay and lost the apartment to a sweet Italian couple. Everyone understands these unwritten rules, but they come with an element of danger. Not from the tax man but from thieves. Rumor has it that the seller of a large villa with a fierce German shepherd was robbed the night of his real-estate closing and unable to report the theft of more than $1 million in cash he had illicitly received that day. The cash, and the dog, were never found.
Rather than be a part of France's tax problem, I resolved to be a part of the solution. I started by asking for receipts at the boulangerie, despite the impatient customers behind me. With each purchase, I noticed that my daily bread grew more and more stale. "Bonsoir"s and "Au revoir"s were dropped. On several occasions I received change in worthless francs instead of euros. I tried the same technique at the dry cleaners, undeterred by the fact that the collars on my shirts began feeling like cardboard and the buttons were melted to the thinness of crepes. I even stopped paying cash to the owner of our dog's kennel when I became suspicious that there was a link to his brand-new Mercedes convertible. But when I picked up my Labrador, she seemed skinnier and depressed.
After seeing my dog, I abandoned the idea of paying our babysitter with a check. Dropping my one-man fight against French tax evasion, I reverted to cash. Overnight, croissants tasted fresher. Shopkeepers resumed smiling. My gardener planted fresh flowers. Who cares if I lost a chunk of change investing in a mussel-aquaculture farm north of Bordeaux? Freddy no longer haunts my dreams.
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