Lullaby - Leila Slimani Page 0,14

on the children’s heads. They laugh at these hats that fly off when the nanny blows on them.

In the metro, on her way home, Myriam had felt as impatient as a lover. She hadn’t seen her children all week and tonight she had promised herself she would devote herself entirely to them. Together, they would slip into the big bed. She would tickle them and kiss them, she would squeeze them against her until they were dizzy. Until they struggled.

Hidden behind the bathroom door, she watches them and she takes a deep breath. She feels a frenzied need to feed on their skin, to plant kisses on their little hands, to hear their high-pitched voices calling ‘Mama’. She feels suddenly sentimental. This is what it’s like, being a mother. It makes her a bit silly sometimes. The most banal moments suddenly seem important. Her heart is stirred by the smallest things.

This week she came home late every night. Her children were already asleep and, after Louise left, she would sometimes lie nuzzled up to Mila, in her little bed, breathing in the delicious smell of her daughter’s hair, a chemical odour of strawberry sweets. Tonight she will allow them to do things that are normally forbidden. They will eat chocolate sandwiches under the covers. They will watch a cartoon and fall asleep late, all snuggled up. In the night she’ll get a few kicks in the face and she’ll sleep badly because she’s so worried about Adam falling off the bed.

*

The children come out of the water and run, naked, into their mother’s arms. Louise starts cleaning up the bathroom. She wipes the tub with a sponge and Myriam tells her: ‘Don’t bother, there’s no need. It’s late already. You can go home. You must have had a tough day.’ Louise pretends not to hear. Squatting down, she continues scrubbing the edge of the bath and tidying up the toys that the children have tossed around.

Louise folds the towels. She empties the washing machine and makes the children’s beds. She puts the sponge back in a kitchen cupboard and takes out a saucepan, which she puts on the hob. Helplessly, Myriam watches her work. She tries to reason with her. ‘I’ll do it, don’t worry.’ She tries to take the saucepan from her, but Louise grips the handle tightly in her palm. Gently, she pushes Myriam away. ‘Go and rest,’ she says. ‘You must be tired. Enjoy your children. I’ll make their supper. You won’t even see me.’

And it’s true. As the weeks pass, Louise becomes ever better at being simultaneously invisible and indispensable. Myriam no longer calls to warn her that she’s going to be late and Mila no longer asks when Mama is coming home. Louise is there, single-handedly holding up this fragile edifice. Myriam lets herself be mothered. Every day she abandons more tasks to a grateful Louise. The nanny is like those figures at the back of a theatre stage who move the sets around in the darkness. She picks up a couch, pushes a cardboard column or a wall with one hand. Louise works in the wings, discreet and powerful. She is the one who controls the transparent wires without which the magic cannot occur. She is Vishnu, the nurturing divinity, jealous and protective; the she-wolf at whose breast they drink, the infallible source of their family happiness.

You look at her and you do not see her. Her presence is intimate but never familiar. She arrives earlier and earlier, leaves later and later. One morning, coming out of the shower, Myriam finds herself naked in front of the nanny, who does not even blink. ‘Why should she care about my body?’ Myriam reassures herself. ‘She’s not prudish like that.’

Louise encourages the couple to go out. ‘You should make the most of your youth,’ she repeats mechanically. Myriam listens to her advice. She thinks Louise wise and kindly. One evening Paul and Myriam go to a party thrown by a musician whom Paul has just met. The musician lives in an attic apartment in the sixth arrondissement. The living room is tiny and low-ceilinged, and the guests are crammed close together. There’s a very happy atmosphere and soon everyone starts dancing. The musician’s wife – a tall blonde with fuchsia lipstick – passes round joints and pours shots of vodka into ice-cold glasses. Myriam doesn’t know these people at all, but she talks with them and laughs loudly, her head thrown back. She spends an hour