This was another hot, stifling late summer day, and there was nowhere to go for cool air except the movies, but I didn’t want to spend the money. I looked at where he’d been sitting last week. A couple with a baby was occupying that table, so I found a table elsewhere in the café, sat down, and took out a copy of La Rochefoucauld’s Mémoires. Suddenly, I heard his voice. He was seated not far from me and was arguing with his backgammon opponent.“You’ve done it again; don’t do it. This is a warning.”I couldn’t tell whether this was the common verbal squabbling between backgammon players or an earnest warning. Just then Kalaj slapped a black ivory chip very loudly on the backgammon bar, almost in a rage.“Nique ta mère, neek your mother!”Another dice throw, and his opponent, Moumou the Algerian, yelped, “Nique la tienne, neek yours!”“With what?” bandied Kalaj.“Just play!” said Moumou.Kalaj rolled the dice again, a double something, I couldn’t tell what, but I knew it was a double because I immediately heard slap, slap, slap, slap, four times.
