Lullaby - Leila Slimani Page 0,41

shyness of breathing, all this anguish dissolves in the liquid she sips. The banality of the restaurant, and of Hervé … it is all transformed. Hervé has a soft voice and he knows when to shut up. He looks at her and he smiles, eyes lowered to the table. When he has nothing to say, he says nothing. His little lashless eyes, his sparse hair, his purplish skin, his manners no longer displease Louise so much.

She lets Hervé walk her to the metro station. She says goodbye and walks down the steps without turning round. On the way home, Hervé thinks about her. She inhabits him like a catchy song in English, a language he doesn’t understand at all, and in which, despite all those years spent listening to music, he continues mangling his favourite choruses.

At 7.30, as she does every morning, Louise opens the front door of the apartment. Paul and Myriam are standing in the living room. They look as if they’ve been waiting for her. Myriam resembles a half-starved animal that has been prowling its cage all night. Paul turns on the television and, for once, lets the children watch cartoons before they go to school.

‘Stay here. Don’t move,’ he orders Mila and Adam, who stare hypnotised, mouths hanging open, at a group of hysterical rabbits.

The adults lock themselves in the kitchen. Paul asks Louise to sit down.

‘Shall I make you a coffee?’ the nanny asks.

‘No, thanks, I’m fine,’ Paul replies coldly. Behind him, Myriam stares at the floor; her hand touches her lips. ‘Louise, we received a letter that has put us in a difficult position. I have to admit that we are very upset by what we learned. There are certain things that cannot be tolerated.’ He says all this in a single breath, his eyes riveted to the envelope in his hands.

Louise stops breathing. She can’t even feel her tongue any more and has to bite her lip to prevent herself crying. She wants to act like a child would: cover her ears, scream, roll on the floor, anything to avoid having this conversation. She tries to identify the letter that Paul is holding, but she can’t make out anything: not the address, nor the contents.

Suddenly she feels sure that the letter is from Mrs Grinberg. The old harpy was probably spying on her while Paul and Myriam were away, and now she is telling them everything. She’s written a poison-pen letter, denouncing Louise, insulting her, as a way of distracting herself from her solitude. Undoubtedly she has told them how Louise spent her holiday here. That she invited Wafa. Maybe she even sent the letter anonymously, to add to the mystery, the malice. And besides, she probably invented things, covering the paper with all her old-lady fantasies, her lewd, senile delusions. Louise won’t be able to stand it. No, she won’t be able to stand the disgusted look on her boss’s face, the idea that Myriam will believe that she slept in their bed, that she made fun of them behind their backs.

Louise stiffens. Her fingers are tensed with hate and she hides her hands behind her knees so Paul and Myriam won’t see them shaking. Her face and throat are pale. In a rage, she puts her fingers through her hair. Paul, who was waiting for a reaction, goes on.

‘This letter is from the tax office, Louise. They’re asking us to take from your wages the sum that you owe them – and have apparently owed them for months. You’ve never replied to single reminder letter!’

Paul could swear he saw relief in the nanny’s face.

‘I’m well aware that this is humiliating for you, but it’s not very pleasant for us either, you know.’

Paul hands the letter to Louise, who does not move.

‘Look.’

Louise takes the envelope and removes the sheet of paper from it, her hands clammy and trembling. Her vision is blurred. She pretends to read the letter, but she doesn’t take in a word of it.

‘If it’s got to this point, it’s their last resort, you understand? You can’t act so negligently,’ Myriam explains.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry, Myriam. I’ll take care of this, I promise.’

‘I can help you, if you need help. You’ll have to bring me all the documents so we can find a solution.’

Louise rubs her cheek, palm open, eyes vacant. She knows she ought to say something. She would like to hug Myriam, to ask for her help. She would like to say that she is