T A B L E_T A L K Are Americans ugly? Discuss why the world loves to hate U.S. tourists in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk ___________________ Learn more about Burkina Faso at barnesandnoble.com ___________________   R E C E N T L Y The men who moil for gold By J. Kingston Pierce A century after the race for the Klondike gold fields, a hiker traces the argonauts' northward course (01/06/99) Vive la roller blade! By Susan Hack In Paris, Friday night has an all-new rite (01/05/99) Death in Antigua By Steve Kettmann A host family's tragedy tweaks the conscience of a traveler in Guatemala (01/04/99) Hot spots of the millennium Where will people be traveling in 2000? Travel experts predict the destinations of choice in the new millennium (12/24/98) Not finding God in Rome By Zachary Karabell At Christmas in the Eternal City, a seeker of truth discovers that sometimes the answer you don't get is the one you need (12/23/98)   Browse the Wanderlust Feature archives     Wanderlust's Official Travel Book Partner		MOTHER LOAD | PAGE 1, 2, 3 - - - - - - - - - - I'd originally planned to stay two or three days. A week had gone by, and I was expecting my visa from the Malian embassy any day. As the time for my departure approached, my conversations with Brigitte developed an urgency, as though there weren't time for her to say everything she wanted to say before I left. Rod became more affectionate than ever, clinging to my hand, sitting on my lap, hanging onto my legs. I sat with her sometimes from afternoon through evening, stroking her hair, singing. One evening I sat next to Brigitte on her bed while she worked the sleeping Lidia's hair into tight little braids. "She never lets me do it when she's awake," she explained. I watched her fingers fly, dipping into oil, then sectioning, braiding, sectioning again. "I don't love my husband," she said to me. "I used to love him, but now I don't. He goes with other women." "How do you know?" I asked. "I've seen the woman. My friend has pointed her out to me." She made a disgusted face. "It makes me sick. And he doesn't give me money." I looked around. "How do you buy things?" "Oh, he pays for food, you know. School things. But anything for me, my clothes, my hair, I have to get it for myself. He's giving it all to her. But he won't let me get a job. And he wants me to have more children." She pulled another face. I watched her fingers, now layering the braids into overlapping arches. "When I find someone else, I'm going to divorce him. I just have to find someone first. I don't want to go around, going on dates. A woman isn't safe that way. But I must hurry, before another baby comes. Can you find an American husband for me?" "I can't even find one for myself," I joked. "I want an old man," she said. "Young men are too complicated. I want one who'll appreciate me. I'll give you a picture of me to give him and he can send a picture, and if we like each other, then he'll send me the plane ticket and I'll come." I pointed out that the visa might still be a problem. "He'll get it for me," she said. "If he's hot, he'll do it." She took her hands from Lidia's hair and ran her palms up and down the sides of her body, across her breasts, her arms, her thighs. She closed her eyes. "An old man, who'll treat me well." I said nothing. After a moment, she opened her eyes and went back to her hair sculpture. Lidia started for a moment, opened her eyes and whimpered. Then, seeing her mother, she closed them again, drifted back to sleep. "What about your children?" I asked. "What will they do if you go to the U.S. and marry some old fart?" She shrugged impatiently. "Their father will take them. I'll send money. It will be better for them." I stared at her. "If I ... If I had children like yours," I looked down at the sleeping baby. "I could never leave them." She looked at me and for a second, anger crossed her face. She looked away and shrugged, a quick, violent jerk. "They'll be OK," she said. We sat in silence. Her hands, on Lidia's head, lay still. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - "In your city, will you show me around?" she asked me that night as we lay side by side on her white-sheeted bed, under the gauzy canopy of the mosquito net. "Sure," I said, eager to reestablish our intimacy. "We'll go dancing together, go shopping, to the movies." "Oh yes," she said, "yes, that's it. I'll be in the movies. That's the way to make money." I laughed, and she turned her head sharply toward me. "That's not so easy," I said. "Oh, but I can do it!" she said, and in the dark, I could feel the motion as her hands stroked the sides of her body, her head thrown back. "I can do the movies like that, the love scenes ... I know how to do it." She stopped abruptly. "Of course, if I had a husband, he wouldn't let me. On my own, I could make some money." "Your husband probably wouldn't stop you. In the U.S., it's normal for women to work. Most women work." "Oh yes?" she said. "Good." - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - When I got back from the Malian embassy the next afternoon, passport and visa in hand, I found Brigitte in the smoke-filled kitchen, waving a large stick at Yolan and Nyanga, the servant girls, who clung to one another in fear. "They're bêtes!" she shrieked, when she saw me, using the French word that means both "stupid" and "beast." "What? What happened?" "Bêtes! I had some mayonnaise, did you see the mayonnaise? I bought it -- it was supposed to last until Easter -- and yesterday, they served it all to the people that were here. All of it. Il faut economiser. I don't earn the money here, it's my husband who earns the money. What's he going to say? Stupid beasts!" She held the stick above her head, her face livid. The girls, huddled in the corner, began sobbing. My eyes teared in the heavy smoke. Behind Brigitte, Constantin appeared in the doorway, an odd smile on his face. I approached Brigitte slowly, holding out my hand for the stick. "Everyone makes mistakes," I said. "The same stupid mistakes, again and again." "We all make mistakes," I said again. "I'll buy you some more mayonnaise." The look Brigitte gave me was unreadable. In the corner, Yolan wailed. Constantin laughed loudly, and ran off. Slowly, Brigitte lowered the stick. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - At 11 o'clock that night, Brigitte and I sat on the couch in the living room, drinking beer. It was my goodbye party. Brigitte got up, went to the tape recorder, and put in a tape, a funky, bluesy groove. She pulled me up off the couch, and we started to dance. After about 20 minutes, I collapsed back onto the couch, my head swimming from the heat. Brigitte kept dancing, her eyes closed. I stared at her, mesmerized by the extreme grace of her bulky frame. Her hips seemed to move independently of her upper body, which hovered above them, regal and still. Her behind taunted the beat, tantalized it, waiting till the last possible instant, till I thought she wouldn't make it, couldn't, then it snapped into place, twitching and popping like corn in hot oil. Over the rhythmic thump of the music, I heard Rod's voice coming from the bedroom, soft and plaintive. "Mama. Mama. Mama. Mama." I don't know whether Brigitte heard her or not. I stayed on the sofa. She just kept dancing. SALON | Jan. 7, 1999 Tanya Shaffer is a writer and actress living in San Francisco. Her original solo show, "Let My Enemy Live Long!" based on her travels in Africa, will run Jan. 12 through Feb. 6 at the Eureka Theatre in San Francisco.