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

“Mary, maybe Larry is a sucker. Do you know what that means? Maybe he keeps wanting to believe you are true, even when we all know you already lied: about your job, and your size, and your age…”

Mary squeezes Larry’s hand harder. “I lied, yes.”

“But he needs to believe in you, Mary. He needs it for his life to get better. And he can make your life so much better, Mary. You have no idea how much better your life can become. But he just needs to believe that you’ll be true to him, too. Never lie to him, never, ever lie to him.”

“No, no, never, I sorry.” Mary is crying, and Larry’s a little choked up, too. No, he’s crying. Those are wet, hot tears skittering down my cousin’s cheeks. They won’t let go of each other’s hand.

“Human beings are complicated,” I say. “We lie sometimes, because we feel we have to, and because we feel it will help us. But if we are true, it is better.”

“Is better, is better.” They are both crying.

“You know, he got the kidney to save his life. We called it Princess. But now he needs someone to make his life worth living. If you turn out to be his real Princess…”

A cannon sounds from somewhere, like the one from last night. It reminds me not to take up too much time; there are other concerns in the world, most more pressing than ours.

“Sermon’s over,” I say.

“I’m going to do you a big favor,” Larry says, “and not tell you who you just sounded like.”

“My father?”

“I was going to say Yoda, but sure, knock yourself out.” No time knock anything, however, the job’s not done This sermon of mine turns out to be a twofer, and the target of part two is Larry, himself.

“Larry,” I say.

Again he’s taken aback by something businesslike in my voice. He looks up at me.

“You trust me, right, Larry? Of all the people in the world who’ve double-crossed you and fucked you over, I never have, right?”

“We’ve had our disagreements, but right,” Larry says.

“And it looks like we’ve saved your life, right?”

“I wouldn’t say ‘we,’ Dan. All I did was lie here while you harassed the poor citizens of this country.”

“We’ve always been straight with each other?”

“Within reason.”

“And these two months I haven’t asked you for anything, right?”

“Right.”

“Because I’m going to ask you for something right now,” I say.

“Anything you want. You know I have connections. Name it and it’s yours.”

“For real?”

“It wasn’t like I had a list of other people who’d come to China and help me with this thing, Dan.”

“How many would have?”

“I can’t think of one.”

“And it turned out to be your cousin.”

“I don’t hold it against you.”

I’m still impressed by how he does that: the tough-guy bravado, the unsentimentality that is itself a form of sentimentality.

“So name it,” he says. “Your wish is my command. Deluxe cruise to Bermuda, remote-control microwave, pinball machine with bump-and-nudge-proof U-Shock Board, you name it.”

“All right if I have five wishes? I’d like to press my advantage.”

“Go for it: I certainly would.”

“Okay, Wish Number Five. You know those sagas you’re always telling? I might want to tell a couple myself, about our little adventure here. And if I do, I want you to let me tell them the way I want, no interference.”

“By all means, Dan, why would I care? My sagas are mine, yours are yours-tell anything you want.”

“Just confirming.”

“Okay, that’s a fair answer to what I think was a fair question. So moving along, Wish Number Four?”

“Number Four,” I begin.

“But wait, before you hit me with Number Four, let me just put in a request that in any sagas you tell, don’t make me out to be lovable, okay? I mean, I know you’re not a sappy guy, but please don’t suggest that I’m cuddly in any way, because what the hell do you know? Don’t have your listener fall in love with my complexity, or my human contradictions, or any of that crap. I don’t need a larger fan base.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Matter fact, feel free to maximize my dark side, I’d appreciate that. Demonize me to your heart’s content.”

“Mais oui,” I say with some exasperation. “Can we get to Number Four?”

“Number Four, sure. Oh, but one last thing before we leave Number Five? You may have noticed I try to include a moral in most of my sagas. Something the listener can take away with him. But often I’m guilty of leaving it too implicit, and that’s a failing I don’t want you to make. Give ’em a nice clear moral, something-”

“All right, I’m skipping to Number Three, because you’re wearing me down here.”

“I’m a professional negotiator, what do you think I’m doing-”

“Number Three. Never use the word ‘Chink’ ever again. ‘Chink, rice-picker, zipperhead’-none of those: The Chinese have been absolutely unstinting on your behalf. So banish those words from your vocabulary.”

“Done. That was easy. Next.”

“Number Two. Stop the rest of my hair from falling out.”

“Beyond my power.”

“Then just leave me the little I have left?”

“No can do.”

“Okay, in that case I’m going to load everything onto Wish Number One, the only one I really care about, the hardest one, maybe the hardest you’ve ever had, for big boys only. You up for it?”

“I hope so.”

“Ready?”

Larry sucks in his breath like a heavyweight before the opening bell. His brain is buzzing: Am I going to ask him to reimburse me for the past two months? I can see him calculating costs, adding figures. At last he nods.

“Ready,” he says.

“Release Burton,” I say.

My request catches him sideways, like a roundhouse punch to the jaw after some playful poking. This is even huger than he expected. I see it in his impassive face.

“I’m not saying you have to forgive him,” I elaborate. “Just let him go. Release him.”

“You bastard,” he says.

“Tough, huh? That’s my only request. Can you do it?”

“Oh, you would have to choose that one. That was the sweetest revenge I was ever going to take.”

“You’re using the past tense. Does that mean it’s over?”

Larry closes his eyes. He does not sigh. He doesn’t breathe at all for a minute. He looks like a zombie. But then he often looks like a zombie: waxy, inert.

Then: “Yes, Dan.”

“I have your word, right? No reaching out to underworld connections…?”

He extends his hand to offer me a weak handshake. “Of course, Dan. Now leave me be. I’m exhausted suddenly. I’m drained.”

I stand up to take my leave. “Thank you, cuz,” I say.

“Thank you.” He says this impersonally, like a guy thanking a bartender for extra olives. But I know he doesn’t mean it impersonally.

That’s how I wanted our conversation to go, but call it wishful thinking, because reality doesn’t always follow the script you’d like it to. Rewinding the tape a bit, here’s how the conversation actually goes:

“Release Burton,” I say.

“Absolutely not,” he says. His head has pulled back, the neck muscles coiling. He watches me warily, with great slowness, like a snapping turtle readying itself to spring. “Not on your life,” he says. “It’s set in stone.”

“Larry-”

“Look, don’t get me wrong, I think it’s a magnificent idea, aesthetically. It has a certain artistic merit that even a cretin like me can appreciate. You come here to save one cousin and end up saving two. But no, I can’t do it, I won’t do it, and in fact I’m deeply offended that you would ask such a thing.” He holds up a hand to keep me from interrupting. “It makes me think you’re on Burton ’s side, that you’re a backstabber after all, that maybe you’ve been in collusion with Burton this whole time, and I ought to put a fatwa on you, too-”