Niña and the Niña’s white visitors. Concha, slapping tortillas, was real.
Kate walked down towards the kitchen. Concha was slapping the masa, the maize dough which she bought in the plaza at eight centavos a kilo.
“Niña!” she called in her raucous voice. “Do you eat tortillas?”
“Sometimes,” said Kate.
“Eh?” shouted the young savage.
“Sometimes.”
“Here! Eat one now!” And Concha thrust a brown paw with a pinkish palm, and a dingy-looking tortilla, at Kate.
“Not now,” said Kate.
She disliked the heavy plasters that tasted of lime.
“Don’t you want it? Don’t you eat it?” said Concha, with an impudent, strident laugh. And she flung the rejected tortilla on the little pile.
She was one of those who won’t eat bread: say they don’t like it, that it is not food.
Kate would sit and rock on her