Daniel Rose - Larry's Kidney, Being the True Story of How I Found Myself in China

But Mr. Black-and-Gold won’t let it go. “Have you even bothered to learn a word of the language?” he asks me.

I smile at him. “This may sound weird, but I always try not to learn the language of the countries I visit,” I say. “I find I can pick up more sensory information without it, like how a blind person develops other skills to compensate. Have to stay more alert to signals from my environment without the crutch of language.”

The others rally to my defense. “Why are you on his case, Saul?”

“I’m just against checkbook medical tourism,” he declaims flatly. “There are two million people waiting for organs in China. It’s repugnant for cowboys to come in and try to jump ahead of them.”

“I’ll meet your statistic and raise you one,” I say. “How’s this: Seventeen Americans die each day waiting for an organ of one sort or another.”

“I’ll leave the American medical community to voice my position,” he counters. “I’m sure they have good reasons for loathing the practice.”

“Yet even for them it’s not cut and dried,” I say. “I’ll tell you what my cousin’s nurses said. When my cousin was still undecided about going abroad, they agreed with the doctors, that he should sit still and be patient. But when my cousin’s mind was made up to go, they all said, ‘Good for you.’”

“Hmmph!” says Black-and-Gold, half protest and half something else.

“All I’m saying is that under ordinary circumstances I might be tempted to be dogmatic, too,” I tell the man. “But when it’s your own relative’s life on the line, you tend to see a few more shades of gray.”

By now the others are nodding so much on my behalf that Black-and-Gold is finally forced to cut me some slack. “Well, in that case you might want to talk to Antonia over there,” he says. “She owns SER Global.”

“What’s SER Global?”

“Only the principal manufacturer of surgical instruments in the world.”

She’s the glamorous Aussie who said “You had your baby!” when I walked in. She’s taking her seat in the front row beside the news bureau chief, who turns out to be her brother. Good, he’s already in my posse. But I have to plot my approach judiciously. If I approach her directly, it’ll be a one-shot deal and she’ll either cooperate or not. But if I give her room to approach me, I lose nothing if she doesn’t and still retain the option of pursuing her privately later if need be. Sound like a plan? But how am I going to pull it off?

The service begins. I take my seat dead center, and a guy who looks like he could be named Izzy enters the room to take a seat behind me. We give each other the thumbs-up. It’s an energetic ceremony, full of the bellowing of songs and waving of arms to welcome in the Sabbath. The tunes are ones a child might make up in a playground by himself: simple and flowing. The rabbi is an enthusiastic twenty-something woman in Birkenstocks, cracking wise. I find myself thinking that she’s an example of someone who should be a little less comfortable with public speaking, but then decide that’s an uncharitable thought, the result of my being the product of a combative academy myself.

I relax and let my mind wander. Why do I find myself so comfortable in this setting? Maybe it’s because for the better part of a week I’ve been charmed by the Chinese, who seem not so dissimilar to Jews. Think of the areas both specialize in: education, business, and family-not necessarily in that order. Also food. Don’t Jews repair to Chinese restaurants on Christmas, when they’re in need of emotional comfort? Haven’t I noticed that the traditional Chinese moon-cake pastry comes in flavors like those of hamantaschen? Also both subsets have been victims of the same prejudice through the ages: that they’re gawky, bumbling, industrious-the nerds of their respective continents, who in reality have proved themselves capable of some of the most nerdless feats on earth. Also they both share some basic ideas of life and death, such as the belief that the physical body should stay intact after death, barring the removal of organs. Which, come to think of it, doesn’t bode well for my getting a kidney.

On the plus side, however, is an anachronism they share that may just work in my favor. These, after all, are two of the oldest cultures on the planet, still holding fast to certain values they’ve upheld since time immemorial. In this cutting-edge city in this postmodern world, I happen to be sitting in one of those pockets where things operate the way they did four thousand years ago: through personal relationships. Seated here, I’m at the intersection point of two ancient tight-knit systems, where Chinese guanxi meets Jewish guanxi. Could I tap into that somehow to get Larry what he needs?

Not only that, but as I look around at all these brilliant faces, it occurs to me that these are some of the best-connected people in Asia. Could I just stand up and make an appeal right here and now? For inspiration I recall my old college roommate who was enterprising enough to bed Janis Joplin the night she toured campus and used the same spirit years later when he found himself traveling through a faraway city with all the hotels booked up. How’d he find a place to sleep? After leafing through a list of evening events in the local paper, he went to an AA meeting and said, “I’m new to town, can anyone put me up?” That girlfriend lasted six months.

I let the idea simmer while my mind wanders some more. The ark is a red and yellow porcelain credenza in which the Torah sits wrapped in…a bungee cord? I can’t quite make it out from where I’m sitting. People are tapping their feet to these infectious, primitive rhythms. The banker from London, the history professor from Rome, all these high-octane overachievers from the most sophisticated corners of the globe are tapping their toes. My ears perk up at one of the rabbi’s remarks: “We have a sub-minyan of lawyers here tonight, so if anyone is in need of expert legal advice…” Okay, good, they’re a giving group. But will they lend a hand? There’s a moment to introduce all the children in attendance: Rebecca, Ben, Joshua, Eleena. There’s a prayer to ask healing for anyone of our acquaintance who’s ill. Several hands pop up around the room, tossing out names to be included. “For Larry Feldman,” I say, using my best voice so they’re disposed to hear more from me. Okay, hat’s in the ring. But now what?

As the service proceeds, I skim along the text and find myself feeling sorry for God. If He exists, as I happen to believe, does He really want to keep being called all-powerful, ever-righteous, Sovereign and Sustaining Ruler, blah blah blah? After all these eons, He must be so divinely fed up with all that fawning. Put yourself in God’s shoes. If you were Him, wouldn’t you want it spiced up once in a while? We’re boring Him to death! Here’s the praise I’d want to hear, so here’s the praise I put silently forth from my innermost being:

Cool God! O Cool One beyond compare. Blessed be Thou for tossing us a holy bone! You got Larry and me safely to China. We’re on the hunt! We’re getting closer! O Hipper than Anyone God, Most Happening Dude by far, help me help Larry even more. Give me the goods to enhance my cunning, I pray. If You could guide me as to how to play this group so I can save my cousin, that will be cool beyond counting! Thanks unto Thee for showing me the way, O Coolest God of the cosmos, for revealing unto me my opening and giving me my shot…right about now…anytime You think it’s right…

“You there, in the very fetching panama,” the rabbi says.

“Me?” I say, finding myself on my feet. “Oh, yeah, the panama. I figured it would serve as a yarmulke tonight,” I say.

“It works. Is that a silk band?” the rabbi asks.