She meant, no real people and salt of the earth like her own Mexican self.
“They are all people like me,” said Kate coldly.
“Like you, Niña? And they all talk like you?”
“Yes! Like me.”
“And there are many?”
“Many! Many!”
“Look now!” breathed Juana, almost awestruck to think that there could be whole worlds of these freak, mockable people.
And Concha, that young, belching savage, would stare through her window-grating at the strange menagerie of the 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?”