Oh Mireille!

Jamie dealt with a lot of snickering behind his back. He had a bad enough time being so handsome among a student body where such things are of optimal importance. Other males, or so his friends imagined, were jealous of the attention he excited among the women. He was chased, quite literally, then ridiculed by the people in his department for disliking all the amorous attention. 

Mireille d'Auriville thought a lot of the snickering was her fault, because she was female. Jamie never made any secret that he and Mireille shared an apartment. And if a female and a male were sharing an apartment, it must mean that they're doing it, and doing it often. And when two males share an apartment with a female roommate, the collective imaginations of the uninitiated are stretched to their erotic limits.  

Mam'selle d'Auriville would have been the first to admit that their apartment was bereft of any exciting sexual activity. Jamie didn't want any lately, and frankly, neither did she. Jamie's last girlfriend did quite enough damage to last him a very long time. And Cam, the third of the merry roommate trio, just broke up with his long-time boyfriend ("I caught the stupid queen practically necking with Steve Moore in the middle of Rittenhouse Square", he'd told them. "The tart!")  

She had been living with the two of them since coming to Philadelphia from France. This wasn't as romantic as it sounded. She was no starry-eyed European girl come to experience the American myth for the first time.  

Cam had off on Wednesdays and Thursdays. He worked as a park ranger (or "Interpretor", as he and his pay stubs called it) at Independence National Historical Park. Perhaps you've taken a tour of Independence Hall with him, or maybe he has stood next to the Liberty Bell and told you a little bit about it. Anyway, he didn't get the normal Saturday-Sunday weekend. He was in great demand at the park on those days, because that's when the most visitors would be passing through.        

On this particular May Wednesday, Cam was laying on the couch. Mireille kept looking over at him from her little corner office, trying to judge whether or not he was sleeping or dead. The quick, soft pounding on the door was enough to rouse him, and he shuffled his socked feet to the door.  The voice on the other end of the phone was growing increasingly impatient with Mireille, so she took this chance to end the call. "Maman, I have a visitor." 

“A visitor!" Madame d’Auriville said in her exasperated way.   

Mireille could imagine her throwing up her hands. What Mireille literally replied was, "Life requires me to be graceful, and unexpected guests are the tests of one's good upbringing". And with this Maman could not, of course, argue. She excused Mireille, sent her Papa's love, and ended the call.  

Cam looked at Mireille, his eyes wide through his designer-framed glasses, as Serafina clung to him and wept. The apartment that Cam, Mireille and Jamie shared was one of twin apartments on the top floor of an old building. Serafina was one of four women who lived in the other apartment. Mireille supposed she was a friend, although she was always the victim and never a co-conspirator. Cam clearly had no idea why this small woman was wetting his freshly-washed t-shirt with her mystery tears.  

Mireille touched her shoulder gently, pushing away the over-processed curls. "Serafina, what is the matter?" Mireille had to admit the girl looked wretched. But before she could cling to Mireille like a barnacle she said, "Have a seat on the sofa. Would you like some tea?" 

Serafina was still weeping, but she shook her head. "No tea, thank you."  

Cam asked, "Seriously, what's going on? What's got you so glum?"      

Mireille was still agitated from the conversation with her mother, but listened carefully to what Serafina was saying. "Oh Cam, it's my boyfriend," she said, sniffing loudly.      

Cam gestured with his hand. "Girlfriend, we all have those problems," he said.  Mireille smiled. Cam was a gem among stones.      

Serafina sighed. "He went to New York for a week.  He promised he would be back yesterday. But he isn't back, and he hasn't called me the entire time he's been away..." Her voice trailed off into sobs.      

Mireille rolled her eyes. Cam shot her a look, but it was not important. The girl was buried in her own hair and her grief, and could not see Ghislaine's expression. She bit the tip of her left index finger thoughtfully. "And which boyfriend was this?" she asked. She thought it was kind.      

But Serafina looked up at her as if Mireille had suggested Serafina recite a Victor Hugo novel backwards. "Cador, of course. I've been steady with him for two months."      

"Ah," Ghislaine nodded. "I have never met him." And, she thought, it didn't sound like she ever would.      

"I'm sure there's a good reason he hasn't called you, sweetheart," Cam cooed. "I'm sure nothing would keep him away from you if he could help it. He's probably thinking about you right now."      

"Thanks guys," she said warmly. "I needed to hear that."      

Soon, when Serafina had been escorted from the apartment, Mireille turned to Cam. "Are you mad?"       

He shrugged. "She didn't need to hear the truth. She needed comfort."      

Mireille was mystified by this logic. "Wouldn't it be better for her to face the truth now, and begin to deal with it, than to prolong the lie?"      

"Oh, Mireille," he said, with a friendly punch to the shoulder. "You can be so Cartesian sometimes."      

And why shouldn't she be Cartesian?  After seven years living in the States, Mireille had learned mostly to sit back and watch the games the Americans played with each other. For instance, there was this strange habit of offering comfort over truth. Thinking of her friends back in Nice, Mireille thought they would have come to her parents' house in the middle of the night, kidnapped her, and thrown her in the Mediterranean had she ever offered them anything but the hard truth. If a boyfriend was being unfaithful or otherwise indiscreet in his lechery, it was practically a national duty to come straight to the bewildered girlfriend. Then, for however long it took--usually a few days--for her to get over him, her friends would stay by her.        

Mireille had often gotten herself into trouble with her directness, not often outwardly appreciated by her American companions. However, she was well aware that her frankness--no pun intended--would carve her niche in the crazy society of the States. At the university, a fellow Arts and Sciences student had told her she was "blunt as a spoon". She took to this funny idea. For the duration of her undergraduate career, she would introduce herself, "Good evening, my name is Mireille D'Auriville, and I'm as blunt as a spoon."         

She had--appropriately, she thought--submerged herself in her coursework. One did not go to an American university to goof off! But she soon discovered the liability of her looks. She found herself perpetually hounded and chased by campus males, who would not quit even after she had carefully explained that they had a better chance of bobsledding in Hades. Reluctantly, Mireille retired from her habitual corner table at the library, and began to work in her room, to avoid inevitable disturbance.      

Her roommate, an affable girl from Arizona, failed to understand that Mireille was a student, and not a personal adviser. She bombarded Mireille with her problems and begged for advice. Why, Mireille did not know. She herself was only seventeen, after all, and didn't know so very much about life.   

Mireille remembered the night--she had been doing work for her Calculus II class--she finally threw down her pencil, looked up at her roommate, and told her in no uncertain terms that her beloved boyfriend was a philanderer, and that she should just rid herself of him right away. Teary-eyed, the girl hadn't known how to respond. She had stared blankly at Mireille for several minutes before deciding to seek out this boyfriend and have a word with him.      

Soon, the roommate had told the entire floor about Mireille's great wisdom, and how happy she was to be rid of such a loser. By Spring Break, all of West Campus seemed to be coming to Mireille for advice. To Mireille, what these people called advice was merely stating the obvious.  

Ils sont fous, les americains, she thought, and quietly went on with her work.