We’re on holiday in France, spending a week with Constance’s mother, and Constance, and Constance’s sisters. We’ve been here before, and I am practised at adjusting to the dramatic shifts in volume. In the mornings, when everyone under 25 is asleep, it’s so quiet that I can hear a horse sneeze a mile away. After supper, with 10 people seated around the kitchen table, the conversation becomes deafening.
“I think we should play a game!” my wife shouts.
“We’ve been playing a game for 20 minutes!” the middle one shouts. “Pay attention!”
The game we have chosen is meant to be simple enough for everyone to grasp, but we’ve aborted the first round three times because of technical infractions, mostly committed by a single party.
“Wait, what am I?” my wife says, not for the first time.
“Have you looked at your card?” the middle one asks. His tone is familiar: patience edged with exasperation.
“Yes,” she says.
“Ace means you’re a werewolf,” he says. “Face card: you’re a villager. A two means you’re the seer. D’you get?”
My wife stares at him for a moment. “I have an ace,” she says.
“Oh my God!” he screams. “Don’t fucking tell me your card!”
“Stop being unkind to your mother!” Constance shrieks. “I love her!”
“Yes, let’s all be nice,” Constance’s mother says.
“Shut up, mum,” Constance says.
Round one is declared null and void again, and the cards are redealt. The game is elaborate enough to require a neutral moderator: the oldest one, the only person in the room fully conversant with its intricacies. “Night falls on the village,” he says. I close my eyes, and immediately experience the mild distress of not knowing where my wine glass is.
“This is fun,” my wife says.
“Mum, shut your eyes,” the oldest one says.
“Sorry,” she says.
“Will the werewolves make themselves known,” the oldest says, “and decide who they wish to kill.”
A short silence follows; outside, a dry wind whistles through a field of stubble.
“I love this game,” Constance’s sister says.
“Dawn breaks,” the oldest one says, “and the lifeless body of Constance is discovered at the bottom of the village well.”
“What?” Constance says. “That is so unfair.”
“Now the villagers must decide who to lynch,” the oldest says. “Who would like to begin?”
“Am I alive?” my wife says.
“Yes!” the middle one shouts. “Open your eyes!”
The youngest one raises his hand. “Should we do, like, a mercy killing?” he says, pointing to his mother. “To put her out of her misery?”
“How can you be so cruel to your own mother?” Constance shouts.
“I’d definitely vote for that,” the middle one says, putting his hand over his head.
“Oh, dear,” Constance’s mother says.
“Am I the seer?” my wife says.
“You are so not the seer,” the middle one says.
“Any more votes to kill Mum?” the oldest asks.
All eyes turn to me. I realise I haven’t spoken for half an hour. “On the one hand,” I say, “her failure to understand the game means she can’t cheat.”
“I’m not speaking to you,” my wife says.
“On the other,” I say, raising my arm, “yes, I vote kill.” My wife’s bottom lip juts forward theatrically.
“OK,” the oldest says. “Mum dies, night falls.” With those words, an innocent villager – one who never learned to play by the rules – is unceremoniously dispatched.
“I can’t believe you just did that!” Constance shouts. I want to explain that I acted not out of cruelty, or even impatience. But I say nothing, because I can’t tell anyone my real reason: I did it because I am the werewolf.
