Weeks slipped by as the reader scanned the dashboard on the Alberto Navarro Library stairs in Elda, a routine that once marked a small ritual of discovery. The cover of the novel featured a Dalmatian whose gaze carried no magnetism, only a quiet, unsettled honesty. For a stretch, the book stayed in the house, beckoning from a shelf until curiosity finally won. The reader’s sympathy shifted toward the Dalmatian, though the real sorrow settled elsewhere, in the first chapter where a dachshund’s fate cast a long, grim shadow that even a soft canine loyalty couldn’t erase. And yes, the dachshund half Gilda never unveiled her writerly kin to the narrator, even as she sprawled on the couch during long rereads.
The Great Serpent, released by Salamander in 2022, marks Pierre Lemaître’s entry into noir fiction with a structure that leans into the core strengths of the genre. It creates a world where the detective figure is notably absent, leaving the Parisian police to grapple with limitations and, at times, a troubling bias that hints at racism, sexism, and homophobia without sermonizing about them. The result is a novel that feels both raw and deliberate in its social critique, reframing familiar noir tropes through a modern lens.
Mathilde, a 63-year-old woman, embodies a careful blend of resilience and fatigue. She is a daughter, a widow with a medical past, and a figure forged by years of personal and public obligation. Her constant companion is Ludo, a Dalmatian puppy who has grown into a steadfast presence in her life. Ludo’s affection for dogs and his impatience with children contrast with his own quiet ferocity, hinting at a darker current beneath the surface. For decades he has worked as a paid operative for a powerful organization, moving through the world with discipline and a quiet bravado that rarely shines in the open. His complex relationship with his boss, Henri, is revealed through a voice that speaks in second person, a lyrical and often self-reflective stream of consciousness that tours the reader through the character’s inner landscape. The narrative voice is bold, cinematic, and persistent, delivering a present-tense immediacy that keeps the action feeling urgent and continuous. It is a voice that rarely eases its grip, offering a steady drumbeat of thoughts, motives, and moral questions. The author’s approach to this perspective echoes elements found in his earlier work, while also carrying a directness that aligns with contemporary crime storytelling and even moments reminiscent of Tarantino’s most kinetic scenes, though grounded firmly in a literary origin. It is clear that Lemaître’s preface signals a personal labor of love with a debut that waited years before reaching its French audience in print.
The narrative unfolds along a linear spine that tracks daily events through two pivotal moments in the same calendar year, May and September. Mathilde’s perceived missteps become the catalysts for a widening crisis, a descent into a two-way pursuit that pits her against Henri in a game where only one figure can emerge victorious. Technically, the novel distinguishes itself through an omniscient observer who weighs judgments and values, delivering a present-tense narration that feels both immediate and cinematic. The steady ascent of tempo keeps the pace relentless, with hardly a moment of respite as the plot threads tighten. The reader is kept in the orbit of Mathilde’s life and the relentless pressure of the pursuit, with little room for deviation from the central trajectory. In this sense, the work refuses to indulge in naïvely naturalistic depictions of behavior; it presses forward with a disciplined focus that aligns with Lemaître’s broader critique of social structures, including the treatment of women and the urban dynamics that shape communities. The portrayal of immigrant neighborhoods and the density of city life are rendered with a sharp irony that undercuts easy sentiment, presenting a France that is both normal in its routines and acutely perceptive of its hidden tensions. The social critique is not heavy-handed; instead, it is woven into the texture of everyday life, making the novel feel like a mirror held up to a contemporary metropolis.
And why pick up this novel? It delivers pure narrative force, inviting the reader to become a co-architect of the suspense without offering trivial or frivolous moments. The pleasure lies in witnessing how evil is harnessed as a narrative tool, deployed with precision, and received by readers who appreciate a brisk, uncompromising tale. The intoxicating effect rests on the strength of the storytelling rather than on sensationalism, and the result is a work that lingers in the mind as a well-constructed study of motive, power, and consequence. Even as the plot becomes more brutal, the integrity of the narrative voice remains intact, guiding the reader through a sequence of revelations with unwavering clarity. The book does not spare its characters, nor does it shy away from the moral complexity that makes crime fiction compelling. In short, it stands as a vivid testament to how a masterful writer can blend social critique with relentless suspense, all while maintaining a steady, unapologetic focus on the human dimensions at stake. The line about the dog, Gilda, remains a private aside within the larger canvas of the story, a reminder of the personal and intimate elements that texture any life even as it is pulled into a larger, colder machinery of events.