Luxembourg is about to shed its reputation as one of the EU’s largest tax havens

Cracks to international pressure.

Luxembourg Finance Minister, Luc Frieden, announced today that Luxembourg was willing to share account information on global multi-national companies going forward. This extends current information sharing agreements which are limited to US and EU individual tax payers.

"Luxembourg is comfortable to share information about multinationals as well as individuals," Mr Friedan said. This will help shed Luxembourg’s reputation as one of the EU’s largest tax havens.

According to WealthInsight, Luxembourg is the 5th largest private banking centre in the world with assets under management (AuM) of US$350 billion at the end of 2012.

Luxembourg also had mutual fund assets of US$2 trn and additional bank assets of US$550 bn as of year-end of 2012. These figures together amount to US$2.8 trn, which equates to almost 50 times Luxembourg’s GDP of US$57 bn in 2012.

It also equates to over 30 times the total wealth held by locals in the country (US$91 bn). This is an extremely high ratio when considering that Luxembourg is one of wealthiest countries in the world (in per capita terms).

According to the Credit Suisse Wealth Report, Luxembourg has the 8th highest wealth per capita,in the world at US$178,000 per person. This is well above the worldwide (US$28,000) average. Notably, Switzerland is the highest ranked country based on this measure with wealth per capita of US$293,000, followed by Norway in 2nd place (US$243,000) and Australia in 3rd place (US$239,000). The United States had a wealth per capita of US$172,000.

Going forward, WealthInsight expects Luxembourg private banking AuM to stay remain relatively static at US$350 bn, while countries such as Singapore surge ahead.

Singapore is expected to have private banking AuM of over US$2 trillion by 2020, compared to US$550 bin in 2012 and US$50 bn in 2000.

Photograph: Getty Images

Andrew Amoils is a writer for WealthInsight

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I'd only given a literary talk, but someone still told me to leave the country

“So if you don’t like it so much,” he says, “why don’t you leave?” And his tone suggests that there is a good train leaving from St Pancras in half an hour.

So here I am at the Romanian Cultural Institute in Belgrave Square. Eventually. After a misunderstanding that finds me first, forlorn and bemused, at Olympia, with the London Book Fair closing down for the evening, watching my fee grow wings and fly away into the night air. I am called up and told where I could more profitably go instead – that is to say, the venue I should be at. On reassurance that my expenses will be met, I hop into a cab as soon as I find one (which, on Kensington High Street at 7pm, takes far longer than you would think. I will not use Uber).

I am going there in order to be on a panel that is talking about Benjamin Fondane (1898-1944), the Romanian intellectual, poet, essayist, philosopher and all-round dude. I know nothing about the guy beyond what I learned from reviewing a selection of his writings last July but this makes me, apparently, one of this country’s leading experts on him. Such is the level of intellectual curiosity in this part of the world. Fondane was treated much better in Paris, where he moved after finding studying law in Bucharest too boring; treated very much worse in 1944, when he was sent to Auschwitz.

A little corner of me is panicking a bit before the gig starts: I know next to nothing about the man, especially compared to my co-panellists, and I might betray this to the audience of around 80 (I refer to their number, not their age), sitting in their little gilt chairs, in a nice gilt drawing room, which is par for the course for European cultural institutes in this neck of the woods.

Another part of me says: “Don’t be silly, you’ll be fine,” and it turns out I am. I even manage to throw in a few jokes. During the course of one of my answers I say that the UK is a cultural desert and that there was a reason Fondane stopped moving when he got to Paris. The idea of coming to London to breathe the pure air of artistic freedom and inspiration was, and remains, laughable. It gets a chuckle or two out of the (mostly Mittel-European) audience, who like a bit of British self-deprecation as much as we do.

Or do we? Downstairs, and clutching my first glass of the evening (a perfectly drinkable Romanian Merlot), I chat to various people who come up and say they like my reviews etc, etc. All very pleasant. And then a man comes up to me, about my age, maybe a year or three younger, smartly tweeded.

“I was very offended by what you said about this country being a cultural desert,” he says. He is not joking.

“Oh?” I say. “Well, it is.”

He has the look of someone about to come up with a devastating argument.

“What about Shakespeare?” he asks me. “What about Oscar Wilde?”

“They’re dead,” I say, leaving aside the fact that Wilde was Irish, and that anywhere was better than Ireland in the 19th century for gay playwrights.

“So’s Fondane,” he says.

I think at this point I might have raised my glasses and massaged the bridge of my nose with finger and thumb, a sign for those who know me of extreme exasperation, and a precursor to verbal violence.

“So if you don’t like it so much,” he says, “why don’t you leave?” And his tone suggests that there is a good train leaving from St Pancras in half an hour.

“Do not presume to tell me, sir, whether I should leave the country.”

He tells me he has a Polish wife, as if that has any bearing on the matter. He says something else, which for the life of me I can’t remember, but I do know that when I replied to it, I used only one word, and that the word was “bollocks”.

“Well, if you’re going to use bad language . . .”

“I’ve got more,” I say, and proceed to launch a volley of it at him. Things have escalated quickly, I know, but there is no jest in his tone and what I am detecting is, I realise, his strong awareness of the Z in my name, my nose, and my flawless olive complexion. One develops antennae for this kind of thing, after almost half a century. And there’s a lot more of it about these days.

In the end, I become pretty much incoherent. On stage I’d caught myself thinking: “Golly, talking is even easier than writing;” but now my fluency deserts me. But God, it’s fun getting into a fight like this.

I’ve left my tobacco at home but the Romanian government gives me a whole pack of Marlboro Gold, and more wine. Vata-n libertate ori moarte! As they say. You can work it out. 

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 23 March 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Trump's permanent revolution