La Conquête du Monde

The board game Risk was a big part of my childhood. Among my friends the competition was fierce and personal, and each family's house had its own peculiar code of honor. In mine the rule was that a broken treaty instantly united all players against the violator. I believed, and sometimes still do, that a person reveals his true character by whether he legally or illegally invades Irkutsk.

My friend L., meanwhile, was an incurable backstabber. At his house treaties were not even conveniences, they were jokes. At the beginning of his turn he would enter into complex negotiations, forging confederacies, hammering out short- and long-term ceasefires, even brokering ententes among the other players. Then he would pick up the dice: "I've changed my mind: Siam to Indonesia!" He justly laughed at our surprise. "I do this every time," he'd say. "And you fall for it--every time! And you are--stupid!" Indeed.

One day I finally got good or lucky enough to beat my father. The victory was bittersweet. After the final roll, when the last of his armies was removed from the board, his face showed hurt and confusion that stripped my triumph of all delight. There was, I can see now, an unspeakable indignity in having been eradicated in Madagascar by his own 12-year-old son. The humiliation would prove so lastingly painful that my father never dared face it again: that was our last game of Risk, and from then on he wreaked his vengeance through Trivial Pursuit.

Yesterday I learned that Risk was invented by Albert Lamorisse, the filmmaker who directed The Red Balloon; I had long suspected, but now I present evidence, that French cinema is but a vehicle for world domination.