The Girl at the Door

The Girl at the Door

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Overview

Called “the first post-Weinstein novel” by Vanity Fair Italy, The Girl at the Door is a riveting story of lust, power, and betrayal

While on vacation on an idyllic island called Miden, a seemingly aimless woman meets an attractive man and leaves her country to be with him. A few months later, newly pregnant and just beginning to feel comfortable in her lover’s space, her life is upended when a girl arrives at the door.

Slight and pretty, the girl discloses a drawn out and violent affair she’s had with her professor, the father of the woman’s unborn child. In alternating perspectives, the professor and his girlfriend reflect upon their lives, each other, and their interloper. As the community gathers testimony and considers the case, the couple is forced to confront their own paranoia, fetishes, and transgressions in light of the student’s accusations.

Provocative and unnerving, The Girl at the Door explores the bureaucracy of a scandal, and the thin line between lust and possession. In an age in which blunt power and fickle nuance take turns upon the stage, Raimo has delivered an intoxicating exploration of the politics and power of sex.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780802147349
Publisher: Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
Publication date: 10/08/2019
Pages: 240
Sales rank: 1,291,560
Product dimensions: 5.40(w) x 8.10(h) x 0.70(d)

About the Author

VERONICA RAIMO is the author of two novels published in Italy – Il dolore secondo Matteo and Tutte le feste di domani – and a collection of short stories published in Germany, Eines Tages alles dir. Veronica contributes regularly to Rolling Stone and wrote the script for Sleeping Beauty by Marco Bellocchio. She has translated from English to Italian writers such as F. Scott Fitzgerald, Octavia Butler, Iain Sinclair, Vikram Seth, and others. She lives in Rome.

Read an Excerpt

I was in my sixth month when the girl came knocking.


I’d gotten used to visits at home, almost as if I were sick. In a certain sense I was, a languid infirmity that had me spending the days doing nothing. The doctors prescribed a lot of rest. The challenge was to find new ways of resting.


It was always the others who were coming to me. I’d learned how to re-ceive them. People passed by to ask me how I was, give me advice and bring me books on motherhood with covers so ugly I didn’t know where to hide them. If they didn’t bring me books, then they came with something to eat. At times it was something potentially toxic, so along with their kindness came a heartfelt self-reproach: “How stupid of me! Tiramsu… raw eggs! How could I not have thought about it!”


The girl came empty handed. On the threshold, her hair down, her jeans tight, just the way I used to wear before the visitors came to replenish my stock of maternity pants. I was constantly hiding stuff those days.


“Are you the professor’s wife?” the girl asked me.


“Girlfriend, um… partner,” I specified, even though it embarrassed me to use that term. It felt like I was putting on airs.


“I have to speak to you,” she said.

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