Lullaby - Leila Slimani Page 0,16

bun and puts on some mauve eyeshadow. Myriam never uses make-up. Tonight she is wearing a pair of straight-leg jeans and one of Paul’s shirts with the sleeves rolled up.

‘I don’t think you’ve met, have you? Pascal, allow me to introduce our Louise. You know everyone is jealous of us for finding her!’ Myriam puts her arm round Louise’s shoulders. Louise smiles and turns away, slightly embarrassed by the familiarity of the gesture. ‘Louise, this is Pascal, my boss.’

‘Your boss? Oh, give me a break! We work together. We’re colleagues.’ Pascal laughs loudly as he shakes Louise’s hand.

*

Louise is sitting at one end of the sofa, her fingers with their long varnished nails tensed around her glass of champagne. She is as nervous as a foreigner, an exile who doesn’t understand the language being spoken around her. She shares embarrassed, welcoming smiles with the other guests on either side of the coffee table. They lift their glasses to Myriam’s talent and to Paul’s singer, one of whose melodies someone hums. They talk about their jobs, about terrorism and property prices. Patrick describes his plans for a holiday in Sri Lanka.

Emma, who is sitting next to Louise, talks to her about her children. Louise knows how to talk about that. Emma has worries, which she explains to the reassuring nanny. ‘I’ve seen that lots of times, don’t worry,’ Louise repeats. Emma, who has so many anxieties and to whom no one listens, envies Myriam for being able to depend on this Sphinx-like nanny. Emma is a sweet woman, her feelings betrayed only by her constantly wringing hands. She is smiling but envious, a neurotic flirt.

Emma lives in the twentieth arrondissement, in a part of the neighbourhood where the squats have been transformed into an organic crèche. She lives in a small house, decorated with such taste that it almost makes you uneasy. You have the impression that her living room, crammed with knick-knacks and cushions, is designed to provoke envy rather than for its inhabitants’ comfort.

‘The local school is a disaster. The children spit on the ground. When you walk past it, you hear them calling each other “whores” and “queers”. Now, I’m not saying that nobody ever says “fuck” in their private school. But they say it in a different way, don’t you think? At least they know that they’re only supposed to say it when no grown-ups are around. They know it’s bad.’

Emma has even heard that, at the state school, the one in her street, some parents turn up in pyjamas, half an hour late, to drop off their children. That one mother, in a veil, refused to shake hands with the headmaster.

‘It’s a sad thing to say, but Odin would have been the only white kid in his class. I know we shouldn’t give up, but I don’t think I’d handle it well if he came back to the house talking about God and speaking Arabic.’ Myriam smiles at her. ‘You know what I mean, don’t you?’

They stand up, laughing, and move to the table. Paul seats Emma next to him. Louise hurries into the kitchen and she is greeted by bravos when she enters the living room, carrying the meal. ‘She’s blushing,’ Paul says, amused, in a too-shrill voice. For a few minutes, Louise is the centre of attention. ‘How did she make this sauce?’ ‘Ginger – what a good idea!’ The guests vaunt her prowess and Paul starts talking about her – ‘our nanny’ – the way people talk about children and old people in their presence. Paul serves the wine, and the conversations soon rise high above such earthly considerations as food. They speak louder and louder. They stub out their cigarettes in their plates and the butts float in puddles of sauce. No one has noticed that Louise has withdrawn to the kitchen, which she is energetically cleaning.

Myriam shoots an irritated look at Paul. She pretends to laugh at his jokes, but he gets on her nerves when he’s drunk. He becomes salacious, tactless, he loses all sense of reality. When he’s had too much to drink, he issues invitations to horrible people, makes promises he can’t keep. He tells lies. But he doesn’t seem to notice his wife’s annoyance. He opens another bottle of wine and taps on the edge of the table. ‘This year, we’re going to give ourselves a treat and take our nanny with us on holiday! You have to enjoy life, right?’ Louise, a pile of plates in