The large eat-in kitchen was equipped with utensils, a stove, deep sink, and table. The uneven, well-worn tile floor and the dozens of pots and pans stored in the cupboards suggested that some family had eaten heartily from this kitchen. But rather than cooking, Mr. Claire had suggested we order in our meals from the pensão around the corner.

“One of the young boys here at the mission can bring the food over for you.” For the noon meal that day, he carried in caldo verde [potato kale soup], batatas fritas [fried potatoes], and bifes [beef steaks]. He stacked one pot after another on our counter.

“Oh my gosh, look at all this food. How will we eat it all?” we all exclaimed, peering into the pots. “And did he say it only cost twenty escudos?” That translated to eighty cents. For supper he brought potatoes, cod, and cabbage, with boiled potatoes left over to turn into hash browns at breakfast the next morning. Breakfast wasn’t available from the pensão, so we bought milk, eggs, and bread and planned to supplement them with leftovers.

That evening we relaxed in the living room, with a luxuriously competent feeling.

“We found a free place to stay, thanks to Mr. Claire, and cheap food,” I said. “Now all we have to figure out is how to pay for the train.”

“Let’s get out all our money so we can see what we have,” said Kathy. We emptied our wallets and purses onto the coffee table.

“Hey, look! I forgot we had this.” Kathy pulled out the fifty dollars Mom had given us to buy clothes in the Salisbury department stores. I looked longingly at that bill, imagining the shoes, blouses, and skirts it would purchase. For a moment I thought about snatching it back, hoarding it for Kathy’s and my pleasure. I hankered for a pair of heels for church and dressy parties and some nylon stockings, nylons to make my legs sleek. But when I looked around at our group, I knew I was dreaming. Of course, the money would have to be used for getting us back to school. I rather loved the drama of sacrificing for the group.

“Even with the fifty dollars,” Kathy figured, “we’re still going to need a conto [about forty dollars] for train tickets. Maybe we can borrow that from Mr. Claire.”

This detour in Lourenço Marques reminded me of the Famous Five mystery adventures I used to read when I was a kid. Five Run Away Together, Five Get into Trouble, Five Go Adventuring… Barbara, Melvin, Jerry, Kathy, and I had landed in the middle of our own mystery, the mystery of life really. While we sorted out the problems of room, board, and travel, we were learning about each other, especially how boys and girls interacted. I had wanted to rely on Melvin to figure out how to solve our predicament, just as Julian in the Famous Five took the lead. But I realized I had a whole lot more sense than Melvin did. Even Barbara, who was younger than Melvin and me, took charge of guiding us around while the boys acted like useless appendages. It made me wonder again what Mrs. Glegg was sheltering us from and why the boys at A.M.F. were allowed so many more freedoms than the girls.

Since the train didn’t depart until 6:30 in the evening on Wednesday, we had another two days to spend in Lourenço Marques.

I’ll never completely come to terms with the audacity of handing Tez out the train window at the Bela Vista whistle stop. Wrenched from me, a 14-year-old who didn’t know about repercussions, didn’t understand how the body never forgets. I went on with life, moved to school 1500 miles away, learned to maneuver another culture, and left Africa abruptly when war started. But what happened to that little Angolan girl forty-eight years later, if she survived war, land mines, hunger, and flight to a neighboring country? Did she die or did she grow up a refugee—one of 300,000 who fled? After forty years, the war sputtered to a close in 2002. Has Tez returned to Angola, hoping to make her life in a devastated land, in an unfamiliar country? Whether and how she survived continues to haunt me.

To get away from the blood and mess that would be our dinner, I left Tomás and continued nonchalantly to the chicken pen beyond the garage. I pulled open the door just wide enough to slip in. I wondered where Henny Penny was, my favorite white rooster whom I knew we’d never eat. He couldn’t have flown out the top of the coop because we kept his wings clipped. I turned around to look outside the pen for a handsome white rooster, prancing around the garden enjoying his freedom. Maybe he had slipped out when I came in. Then, through the chicken wire, I spied the flurry of white feathers settling around Tomás’ feet.

I felt queasy. The dancing chicken that had made me both giggle and gag must have been my rooster. I stumbled out of the coop, wiped tears from my eyes, and then stalked angrily over to Tomás.

“O meu galo branco não sta lá. Onde sta? My white rooster isn’t there. Where is he?” I demanded, afraid I already knew the answer.

Tomás, with not a hint of regret, solemnly pointed to the naked bird at his feet and said, “Vamos comer o galo hoje para jantar. We’re going to eat him for dinner today.”

My anger crumpled to despair.

I didn’t know where to go, whom to talk to. Everyone upstairs was sleeping and downstairs Tomás was acting calm and cheerful. He thought I was silly to be hysterical about my rooster. I flopped on the living room couch. The morning sun filtered through the sheer curtains on the double doors looking out to the bay. A lizard scurried across the wall above the couch. Was I the only one who cared about Henny Penny?

Tomás called to me when I went back outside. He snickered in an attempt to stifle a laugh. “Look in the toilet,” he said, gesturing to the small bathroom next to the living room.

Why should I look in the toilet? I didn’t have to listen to him. But Tomás kept urging me to look. I walked over and stood in front of the closed door and I heard something moving. Soft scratchy sounds. A low gurgle. I pushed open the door and there facing me on top of the toilet seat, under the pull chain dangling from the tank, was a large white rooster. We stared at each other. He must have been thinking, well, finally someone is letting me out of here, and I was wondering, who are you and why are you in the bathroom? Tomás was doubled up behind me, laughing, telling me, “É o seu galo mesmo. É mesmo. That’s really your rooster.”

The trick Tomás played on me has puzzled friends who have heard the story. Was he sadistic and cruel? Did he hate me? Or was this a cultural oddity? Because he laughed so much when I discovered the rooster, I tried for years to find humor in it despite my anger at the time. In truth, I had never known Tomás to be mean. He was easy going and cheerful, and joked around with me when I came into the kitchen. Pressed to explain him, I think his trick was a result of the common practice among Angolans to closely observe the habits of whites in their midst, and at times to poke fun at them. He had noticed what my routines were and how attached I was to the rooster. He had probably also been the object of a few of my father’s jokes. My father liked to tease with word play. In that cultural context, I believe Tomás planned his elaborate ruse as a compliment to me, to show that he knew me as a real person.

In the bathroom, I gathered the white bird in my arms, holding him tight across his chest. I could feel his heart beating fast, but his legs hung relaxed against my hip, his yellow claws extended. He swiveled his head and fixed me with his black eyes. I told him, “You’re going back where you belong, Henny Penny.”

“Well, then, who was that other white chicken?” I asked Tomás.

“I bought it at the market,” he answered casually.