When the bise blows, see your accountant

When the bise blows, something in the structure of the house I live in sounds like an air raid siren. Fortunately, I can sleep through almost anything. However, in the morning I had the choice of staying cosily inside or meeting the fiduciare to go over my Swiss taxes.

Bundling up, I took the bus downtown. The waves on the normal floor-flat lake, were almost high enough to surf. Ducks and swans took refuge in a small cove probably to prevent seasickness as they rode the waves. Flocons of snow, too small to accumulate, glistened in the air as did the new snow on the Saleve behind the lake.

Although store windows feature multi-colored spring clothes, pedestrians, male and female alike looked like Moslem women in Burkas with only their eyes visible.

“Votre cauchmar est ici,” I told my accountant. I was truly his nightmare and he mine. Although Italian, he looks like an American Army sergeant with his muscular body and crew cut.

During our first meeting, his first words were “Vous êtes americaine. M’explique, Bill Clinton et Monica.” Using what Christiane Amanpour had said on France2 the night before, I said that I considered it a coup d’êtat.

I always am missing some of the papers he wants. One year after three visits to UBS for a certain attestation and failing, he went with me to the bank. Standing in the lobby, he announced to everyone there and probably on the next two floors, “This poor woman is American. She can’t get the form she needs from you. Help her.” My usual salve when I am embarrassed is that I will never see the people again. This time two colleagues looked at me from where they waited in line to see a teller. One smirked, one showed sympathy.

This time, he was happy – until he saw the money I had transferred from the US immediately after Bush’s election. Although I believe that Bin Laden’s threat to bankrupt the US is not needed, because Bush will do it on his own, the falling dollar scared me. I explained.

“But the taxes?” he asked. He slapped his forehead with his left hand.

“Paid. The money was from my salary saved over years.”

“But the taxes?” (repeat the question and answer several times). Finally he accepted I could prove I transferred money for years then transferred it back. He wrote a note on my tax form.

There were two forms still missing. He offered to go with me to UBS, but I politely refused. The other I promised to get from the government office, which I knew so well from all the forms I needed for my Swiss nationality application that I could give a guided tour of restrooms on all the floors.

As I put on my coat he opened a box and pulled out a bottle of olive oil. “From my olive grove in Italy,” he said. "I pressed it myself." The then told me how to brush it on wood-oven baked baguettes with a little salt and grill. He suggested, I could also add tomatoes and goat’s cheese.

We shook hands, thenightmare over for another year, even though the bise was still howling.