French sting - but the smile hurt more

By PETER CALDER

It is the smile I will never forget. At the time, it seemed like a blend of friendliness and urbane Parisian charm. But now the memory of it is hard to swallow.

We'd descended into the bowels of the St Michel metro station in Paris in plenty of time to make the 45-minute run to Charles de Gaulle airport, but our way was blocked by a ticket-operated turnstile which stood between us and the platform.

Dragging the bags up the stairs, we plunged into the rush-hour traffic to reach the other subway entrance across the street. A little harried, we reached the platform level where a burly and swarthy Parisian was helping an elderly American tourist to understand what it said on his ticket.

"I guess," the American was saying as they parted with a cheery wave, "I'll just give it a try anyway."

I should have noticed the white shoes - the badge of office of sharp salesmen and other sharks. I should have remembered that a competent command of undergraduate French does not excuse the traveller from keeping his eyes open.

"Can you tell me where we buy tickets?" I asked him.

He practically exploded into life, bounding off along a tiled corridor. I left my wife with the bags and set off after him. We rounded a corner and there was the ticket booth.

I turned to thank him but he was waving a hand airily at the office and explaining that the office sold tickets only for the suburban line. For so distant a destination as the airport I needed to buy a ticket from the automated dispenser beside us.

His hands were flying back and forth across the touch-sensitive screen, stabbing at boxes which bloomed and faded under his touch. Dimly I was aware of the words: "Aeroport Charles de Gaulle, Deux personnes, and Simple [One way]."

Suddenly, blaring at me from a flashing box was the price: "Prix: FF270[about $90]."

Yes, it does seem like a fortune. Any reasonable person would have immediately been suspicious. I'm quite at a loss to explain why I didn't walk away. All I can say in my own defence, and with the cool wisdom of hindsight, is that the man was a master at this.

As he prodded at the screen he was mumbling in a soothing singsong, not words exactly but a kind of audible massage. At some unconscious level I had been reassured. I was hooked on his line and he was beginning to play me.

"Do you have a credit card?" he asked.

"Yes," I said, turning to look back up the corridor. "My wife ..."

The clatter of an automated printer dragged my attention back to the ticket machine. Two small printed tickets lay in the dispenser tray and my helper was brandishing a plastic card which looked like a smartcard for the Metro.

Fait accompli, as the French would say. I had my tickets. I owed this guy $90. We walked back to where Alison was waiting and fumbled in wallets and purses to find the exact money.

"Do you have any change?" I wondered, pathetically.

"Non, monsieur," he said with a helpless smile as he peered into the piles of change in our four hands. It came within $15 of what we owed him.

"Ca suffit," he said, holding out his hands. "That's enough."

"Oh, Monsieur," I said [and it is this moment, in which I added insult to my injury, that remains deeply etched in my memory]. "Merci beaucoup."

Then the smile. As he moved away down the corridor, he was walking backwards, practically bowing. It was not until later that I will realise this was the expression on the face of a snake who has swallowed a rabbit.

At the airport, we ask an information officer what the fare is from St Michel: 45 francs - about $15 - a person, we are told. I show her what we bought for $90. The tickets - which bear no price stamp - are for an inner-city minimum, three francs each. We have lost $60 but our smiling friend has made about $80 for three minutes' work.