The Perfect Nanny: A Novel - Couverture souple

“Exquisite . . . In Slimani’s hands, the unthinkable becomes art. The Perfect Nanny won France’s most prestigious literary award. . . . One can see why the judges were wowed.” —Maureen Corrigan, NPR’s Fresh Air

“If you are a mother, whatever kind of mother you aspire to be, you’ll know what kind of mother you are after reading Slimani. If you are not a mother, the insights that she administers can be no less jolting. . . . Like Jenny Offill, Slimani can write ravishingly of female bodies, even postpartum ones. . . . The novelist Rachel Cusk has chronicled what motherhood did to her; Slimani examines what mothering is doing to society.” —Lauren Collins, The New Yorker

“If you’ve ever taken care of a kid, even if, just on a bus, someone has handed you a child for five seconds as they rummage through their purse, this will do something to you. . . . At the end of reading this book, I was so devastated, but I really felt like I was looking at the world through new eyes.” —Barrie Hardymon, NPR’s Weekend Edition

“[A] slim dagger of a novel . . . You won’t move until you reach the last page.” —People

“Deliciously twisty . . . Slimani’s exploration of race and class is razor-sharp and brilliantly provides the fuel for a hair-raising tale of domestic horror.” —Entertainment Weekly, “The Ten Best New Thrillers to Read This Spring”

“The first ‘hot’ novel of 2018 . . . Unflinching . . . assured . . . The book aspires toward the taut elegance of that classic nanny nightmare tale, Henry James’s The Turn of the Screw, and, in language and complexity, it comes pretty darn close. . . . Talk about a guilty pleasure.” —The Washington Post

“So twisted and creepy, but absolutely captivating.” —Lauren Christensen, The New York Times Book Review (podcast)

“It’s excruciating, and almost more than anything that I could imagine—and therefore I read on.” —Pamela Paul, The New York Times Book Review (podcast)

“Brilliantly observed . . . Slimani is brilliantly insightful about the peculiar station nannies assume within the households of working families.” —The Wall Street Journal

“Dazzling . . . A portrait etched in shards of glass . . . Slimani is an astute observer of power politics in the home. . . . The hints of France’s greatest short-story writer emerge in the first pages. . . . We begin The Perfect Nanny in horror, and then miraculously, swiftly, Slimani creates a person out of that powerful spectacle. In this fashion the novel functions like an extended Maupassant story turned inside out.” —John Freeman, The Boston Globe

“A taut page-turner about what can happen when no one pays attention to what matters most . . . Illuminates the treatment of domestic workers, the petty ugliness that can be endemic to marriage, and the primal fears that accompany having children.” —O, The Oprah Magazine

“I devoured the entire thing in a day or two. I read it . . . horrified and anxious, yet unable to put it down. It’s a gripping read . . . : a little window into a person’s brain as they unravel into the unthinkable.” —Lori Keong, New York

“If you love dark, propulsive thrillers, you’ll be hooked. . . . Like a good horror film, it offered a safe environment in which to explore all my latent fears. . . . A painfully lurid, one-eye-open kind of pleasure.” —Leah McLaren, MSN

“Spare and evocative . . . A book that haunts you long after you’ve put it down.” —The Cut

“[An] unnerving cautionary tale . . . Pretty radical for a domestic thriller, but what’s more remarkable about this unconventional novel is the author’s intimate analysis of the special relationship between a mother and a nanny. . . . Slimani writes devastatingly perceptive character studies.” —Marilyn Stasio, The New York Times Book Review

“Chilling . . . A slim page-turner, The Perfect Nanny can be read in a single, shivery sitting. . . . It will make a great film.” —The Economist

“Slimani ratchets up the tension here through close quarters, resentment and complicity. The book . . . is chilling and an important look at the unseen challenges faced by service workers.” —The Washington Post, “A Guide to the Best New Thrillers”

“Grabs us by the throat . . . The story’s tension builds relentlessly. . . . Fans of psychological thrillers will find it a perfect start to their 2018 reading list.” —Minneapolis Star-Tribune

“A deft portrait of bourgeois family life in the twenty-first century . . . Readers aren’t likely to converge on a single interpretation of why Louise has done what she’s done. Ultimately, she holds sway as a symbol rather than as a psychological reality, a choice that makes this deftly told tale all the more eerie.” —The Atlantic

“Like Gone Girl, the novel deserves praise for pulling off a tricky plot with nuance. . . . Slimani’s focus on race and class certainly elevates the book’s crime-drama stakes into something more complicated.” —The New Republic

“More artfully composed than many of the books in its genre.” —The New York Times

“A classic, even Dostoevskian, tale of one person’s descent into madness.” —The Millions

“[A] stunner of an opening . . . Slimani’s characters are well drawn, and she laces her narrative with acute observations, and seems intent to let no one off the hook for the terrible act at the heart of the story. . . . [It] feels scarily real. . . . Her matter-of-fact tone adds a layer of creepiness. . . . Slimani gives us much to think about. . . . She comes across as an artist doomed to find the dark side in everything. . . . But that doom may be her great gift.” —WBUR

“This brutal chiller has the same compulsive readability as Emma Donoghue’s Room.” —The Guardian

“The ‘French Gone Girl’ . . . Anyone reading [it] can tell within a few paragraphs that its author is a mother . . . who has felt firsthand the perfect split of agony, ecstasy and mind-numbing boredom that motherhood entails.” —The Telegraph

“The novel, which draws on elements from the real story of a nanny from the Dominican Republic who has been accused of killing two children under her care in New York in 2012, pieces together disparate events that culminate in a nightmarish outcome.” —The New York Times

“This novel—a runaway hit in France—is coming to the United States this month, and it’s sure to take this country by storm, too.” —Bustle

“Just as America became engulfed in Gone Girl and Girl on the Train last year, France became obsessed with The Perfect Nanny. . . . As taboo and shocking as the subject matter is, the underlying theme of women exploring their desires is what stands out. . . . A must-read.” —Hello Giggles

“A devastating, entrancing, literary psychological drama supported by absorbing character studies . . . Readers won’t be able to look away.” —Booklist 

“Expertly probes [a mother’s] guilt at leaving her children with a stranger . . . Those seeking a thought-provoking character study will appreciate this gripping anatomy of a crime.” —Publishers Weekly

“The why of this horrific crime remains unfathomable, rendering it all the more frightening.” —Kirkus Reviews

“A darkly propulsive nail-biter overlain with a vivid and piercing study of class tensions.” —Library Journal, “Top Ten Titles for Winter Reading”

“My nanny is a miracle-worker.” That is what Myriam says when she describes Louise’s sudden entrance into their lives. She must have magical powers to have trans­formed this stifling, cramped apartment into a calm, light- filled place. Louise has pushed back the walls. She has made the cupboards deeper, the drawers wider. She has let the sun in. 

On the first day, Myriam gives her a few instructions. She shows her how the appliances work. Pointing to an object or a piece of clothing, she repeats: “Be careful with that. I’m very attached to it.” She makes recommendations about Paul’s vinyl collection, which the children must not touch. Louise nods, silent and docile. She observes each room with the self-assurance of a general standing before a territory he is about to conquer.

In the weeks that follow her arrival, Louise turns this hasty sketch of an apartment into an ideal bourgeois inte­rior. She imposes her old-fashioned manners, her taste for perfection. Myriam and Paul can’t get over it. She sews the buttons back on to jackets that they haven’t worn for months because they’ve been too lazy to look for a needle. She hems skirts and pairs of trousers. She mends Mila’s clothes, which Myriam was about to throw out without a qualm. Louise washes the curtains yellowed by tobacco and dust. Once a week, she changes the sheets. Paul and Myriam are overjoyed. Paul tells her with a smile that she is like Mary Poppins. He isn’t sure she understands the compliment.

At night, in the comfort of their clean sheets, the cou­ple laughs, incredulous at their new life. They feel as if they have found a rare pearl, as if they’ve been blessed. Of course, Louise’s wages are a burden on the family budget, but Paul no longer complains about that. In a few weeks, Louise’s presence has become indispensable.

 

When Myriam gets back from work in the evenings, she finds dinner ready. The children are calm and clean, not a hair out of place. Louise arouses and fulfills the fantasies of an idyllic family life that Myriam guiltily nurses. She teaches Mila to tidy up behind herself and her parents watch dumbstruck as the little girl hangs her coat on the peg.

Useless objects have disappeared. With Louise, noth­ing accumulates anymore: no dirty dishes, no dirty laun­dry, no unopened envelopes found later under an old magazine. Nothing rots, nothing expires. Louise never ne­glects anything. Louise is scrupulous. She writes every­thing down in a little flower-covered notebook. The times of the dance class, school outings, doctor’s appointments. She copies the names of the medicines the children take, the price of the ice creams she bought for them at the fairground, and the exact words that Mila’s schoolteacher said to her.

After a few weeks, she no longer hesitates to move ob­jects around. She empties the cupboards completely, hangs little bags of lavender between the coats. She makes bouquets of flowers. She feels a serene contentment when—with Adam asleep and Mila at school— she can sit down and contemplate her task. The silent apartment is completely under her power, like an enemy begging for forgiveness.

But it’s in the kitchen that she accomplishes the most extraordinary wonders. Myriam has admitted to her that she doesn’t know how to cook anything and doesn’t really want to learn. The nanny prepares meals that Paul goes into raptures about and the children devour, without a word and without anyone having to order them to finish their plate. Myriam and Paul start inviting friends again, and they are fed on blanquette de veau, pot-au-feu, ham hock with sage and delicious vegetables, all lovingly cooked by Louise. They congratulate Myriam, shower her with compliments, but she always admits: “My nanny did it all.”
 
When Mila is at school, Louise attaches Adam to her in a large wrap. She likes to feel the child’s chubby thighs against her belly, his saliva that runs down her neck when he falls asleep. She sings all day for this baby, praising him for his laziness. She massages him, taking pride in his folds of flesh, his round pink cheeks. In the mornings, the child welcomes her with gurgles, his plump arms reaching out for her. In the weeks that follow Louise’s arrival, Adam learns to walk. And this boy who used to cry every night sleeps peacefully until morning.

Mila is wilder. She is a small, fragile girl with the pos­ture of a ballerina. Louise ties her hair in buns so tight that the girl’s eyes look slanted, pulled toward her tem­ples. Like that, she resembles one of those medieval hero­ines with a broad forehead, a cold and noble expression. Mila is a difficult, exhausting child. Any time she becomes irritated, she screams. She throws herself to the ground in the middle of the street, stamps her feet, lets herself be dragged along to humiliate Louise. When the nanny crouches down and tries to speak to her, Mila turns away.

She counts out loud the butterflies on the wallpaper. She watches herself in the mirror when she cries. This child is obsessed by her own reflection. In the street, her eyes are riveted to shop windows. On several occasions she has bumped into lampposts or tripped over small obstacles on the sidewalk, distracted by the contemplation of her own image.

Mila is cunning. She knows that crowds stare, and that Louise feels ashamed in the street. The nanny gives in more quickly when they are in public. Louise has to take detours to avoid the toyshop on the avenue, where the lit­tle girl stands in front of the window and screams. On the way to school, Mila drags her feet. She steals a raspberry from a greengrocer’s stall. She climbs on to windowsills, hides in porches, and runs away as fast as her legs will carry her. Louise tries to go after her while pushing the stroller, yelling the girl’s name, but Mila doesn’t stop until she comes to the very end of the sidewalk. Sometimes Mila regrets her bad behavior. She worries about Louise’s paleness and the frights she gives her. She becomes loving again, cuddly. She makes it up to the nanny, clinging to her legs. She cries and wants to be mothered.

Slowly, Louise tames the child. Day after day, she tells her stories, where the same characters always recur. Or­phans, lost little girls, princesses kept as prisoners, and castles abandoned by terrible ogres. Strange beasts—birds with twisted beaks, one-legged bears and melancholic unicorns—populate Louise’s landscapes. The little girl falls silent. She stays close to the nanny, attentive, impatient. She asks for certain characters to come back. Where do these stories come from? They emanate from Louise, in a continual flood, without her even thinking about it, with­out her making the slightest effort of memory or imagina­tion. But in what black lake, in what deep forest has she found these cruel tales where the heroes die at the end, after first saving the world?