Larry's Kidney: Being the True Story of How I Found Myself in China with My Black Sheep Cousin and His Mail-Order Bride, Skirting the Law to Get Him a Transplant--and Save His Life

by Daniel Asa Rose

  My thrift is canceled out, though, by the overly lavish gifts Larry directs me to disburse. I take his MasterCard to the ATM time after time to get generous wads of cash for everyone. (“Every time I hear myself say ten thousand,” Larry says about the gift to Cherry “my heart jumps. I know it’s only about twelve hundred dollars American, but I have a hard time giving away ten thousand anything. Even pennies. Especially pennies. What can I tell you—the habits of an old penny collector.”) Also, I buy an ostentatiously expensive scotch for Dr. X that, naked of its velvet wrapping, fits in well with the parrots on his shelves. Word comes down that Dr. X is offering his personal Bentley and driver to take Larry to the regional airport three days after I leave. The generosity (and the self-interest) of the Chinese people goes on and on.

  Luckily, just in case I’m getting overly fond of the place, the smog’s returned. We’re back to breathing Frappuccinos, even tastier than before. The sun’s a white token in the milky sky, like a zinc slug Larry once gave me to get into the subway free. But at least the smog’s dissipating somewhat from Larry’s brain. “800-555-1212,” he says. “Hey, look what I know. I didn’t know those numbers last week. Toll-free information. Now I can call the airlines and wrangle a disability upgrade.”

  At the appointed time early one morning, checking out of the Super 2, I find my den mother the housekeeper and tell her I’m leaving.

  “Not just for a walk this time,” I say. “For good and all.”

  She stamps her feet and sticks her tongue out at me! What’s that about? Then, what a hug she gives me! A full frontal, complete with burrowing her nose in my neck and roughly inhaling me.

  Getting to the hospital to make my good-byes, I find Cherry, who loads me up with hospital papers and last-minute instructions to tell Larry’s Florida doctors about his ongoing care. I press her two hands to my heart: “Good hands,” I say as she nods, smiling. For the first time, it is not a promise or a plea. It is a statement of fact.

  I go to the second floor to see Abu but can’t locate him. From his bed his dusky-skinned father says, “How is the Professor doing?”

  “He’s pink!” I say, then realize that’s not necessarily a color that would speak to him. Besides, Abu’s father is not faring as well. He’s still awaiting a transplant, with no word on when it may arrive; an associate from Yemen has had two surgeries so far, and both have been problematic.

  Leaving Abu’s father’s room to resume my good-bye rounds, I’m ambushed by someone throwing his arms around me. “Take me wiz you!” cries Artie the KFC deliveryman, near tears despite his helpless smile of double-harpsichord teeth. “I fatten you up!” I gently disentangle myself and give him the fake watch from my wrist. What the hell, I give him the fake one from my other wrist, too. With Artie on the case, maybe it’ll catch on in China as a power fad.

  “Dan, ah, I think he be sweet at you,” says Mary, who has shown up unexpectedly, no doubt lost.

  New mysteries all the time…

  I accompany Mary to the ninth floor, where she tells me that a surprise is waiting. Sure enough, in our suite is a tall, weedy young man she introduces as her son. “Captain of college team-ah basketball.”

  It’s a full-court press—a final-quarter tactic as the clock ticks down—to get Larry to seal the deal, but I don’t mind feeling manipulated, because I like Ling; he’s an upstanding young man, despite his loose-knuckled handshake. He even brought a gift of a personal plastic fan, which Larry’s placed on the table beside him, its gift ribbons blowing in the breeze. Ling is shy and also a bit rehearsed, with a lot of big words that could come from nowhere but a thesaurus. “My mother is a diligence and docile woman, also hygienic and plausible,” he tells me artlessly.

  “You yourself are also diligent, I see. And I’m touched by your loyalty to her,” I tell him. “But it’s Larry’s decision, to make when he sees fit.”

  “I see, I see. In that situation I give you two time alone to make farewell,” the son says. He squires his mother toward the hallway. But Mary is not ready to go yet. She balks at the door in her fur coat, looking as glamorous as a movie star. How’d that happen again? Whether or not they stay together, I’m glad she has my grandmother’s baby sister’s coat.

  She speaks. “I need you understand me. We all together long long time, not just Larry-Mary: Larry-Mary-Dan. When you go home, I’m no happy.”

  She starts dabbing at her eyes.

  I still can’t tell if I see tears or not. But you know what? It’s not my business any longer.

  “I hope you be happy every day,” I tell her. “And I hope I see you in Florida, if that’s what’s in the cards.”

  Her son translates. “Oh, yes,” she says, lighting up. “In cards! Hope yes!”

  I busy myself with last-minute packing while they make their way down the hall. When they’re out of earshot, I put it to Larry.

  “So what’s the verdict? Marry Mary?”

  Larry’s more chipper than I’ve seen him this whole trip, almost sunny. I have the feeling it’s not just because he’s relishing his newfound health; it’s also because he’s vanquished me. He won. He didn’t give me what I wanted. His victory gives him strength.

  “My muscles feel lazy as a Kobe cow,” he tells me. “Ever have one of those steaks? They’re hand-massaged for twelve hours a day and given a steady diet of beer. Nuffing like good old-fashioned American beef. I look forward to getting some of those when I get home.”

  “They’re Asian,” I point out.

  “Are they?” he asks, merrily stretching his back muscles.

  I’m feeling the tension, even if he isn’t. I regard his uncharacteristic vivacity with a certain detachment. “You look well rested,” I say.

  “Do I?” he says. “Because I’m not. Mary and I finally found something better to do last night than sleep.”

  I ignore his leer. It’s Mona Lisa in the clubhouse with her cronies after a satisfying round of golf.

  “Congratulations,” I say.

  “So what I figure is this,” he says. “No matter how it plays out from here, I still got the better part of the deal.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I came here for two things. To see if it would work out with Mary. And to see if I could get a kidney. Even if Mary doesn’t work out, I’m still batting .500. And just between you and me, the better .500 of the two, at an eighty-five-percent discount, fifteen cents on the dollar. That’s not bad for my rookie visit to China.”

  “You say ‘rookie’ as though there might be more.”

  “You never know, Dan. I may just decide to come back and run out the clock here. My pennies will last a lot longer here than at home….”

  “Not a bad plan,” I say.

  “And my blood pressure’s still coming down, so I just may not stroke out after all. Plus, I’m gonna ride in a Bentley.”

  He pauses while he treats me to the sound of his diseased teeth triumphantly cracking the hard candies he’s nicked from various nurses’ stations. I place my toiletries in my bag, leaving out the black and gold yarmulke for Larry to keep. I’m aware that these are the final moments I’ll be breathing a certain loamy scent. Everything’s ready except for my laptop, but just as I reach to turn if off—KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK—it’s the brood from candeyblossoms.com. Yet they’ll have to go unanswered, by me, forever. I shut it down and zip my bag closed.

  “And Mary?” I ask.

  “I’ve talked to her in depth about her deceptions. That’s what I called them, no beating around the bush. I’m being very tough with her.”

  “Good.”

  “I told her there will have to be changes from now on. Because I continue to catch her lying about things, big and little. It’s an ingrained habit, makes me wary.”

  “As well it might.”

  “I put it to her in no uncertain terms that if I’m willing to go ahead and finance her education—”

  “Larry—”

  “—that I’m going to insist on a prenup.”
>
  “Now you’re talking.”

  “So she won’t get her half of my estate until a year passes—”

  “Larry, make it five years! Ten years! This is supposed to be a long-term relationship.”

  “I’m cutting her a little slack.”

  “I swear, Larry, in your own way you’re a lot more forgiving than I am.”

  “I’m just not ready to close the door. Maybe she has her reasons for doing what she does.”

  “People always do.”

  “Yes they do! And who knows, under my tutelage she may just turn into an honest woman after all. In which case I’m fully prepared to marry her and make her my wife. But if I decide she’s playing me for the village idiot, she’s dead in the water.”

  “You don’t mean literally.”

  “Probably not. But I’ll cut my losses and move on.”

  “That’s what I like to hear.”

  “You can beat a dead horse for only so long before it starts to decay.”

  “Glad to hear those words, Larry, even if they do sound Chinese.”

  “You want Chinese? ‘Be virtuous, but without being consciously so; and wherever you go, you will be loved.’”

  “What, you’re quoting Confucius now?”

  “Hey, I keep my ear to the ground. Bottom line, who are we to judge if she’s the real McCoy or not? The only thing I know for sure is that she’s spending a lot of effort to please me, and if she keeps that up, I’ll end up fat and happy. Does that make sense to you?”

  “It makes Larry sense to me.”

  “Thank you, I think,” he says. “It’s like what my futha used to say: ‘What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.’”

  “Larry!” I say as the fridge squawks, dying yet another death. “Did you hear what you just did? You just quoted your father.”

  “I know. I’m speechless.”

  But not for long. He picks up the portable fan from the table and holds the grille against his lips. “You made my day, Dan.” He puts it down.

  “You’re welcome. So can I set you up with a wheelchair at the airport?”

  “Right. Like I’m gonna accept a wheelchair. Dan, think about the stories you have to tell when you get home: How good a character would I be if I did everything you asked? Who’d want to hear about me if I was the type to take a wheelchair?”

  “So really you’re doing it for me, as you have been all along.”

  “An argument could be made, yes. Just don’t act like you didn’t get something out of this, too, don’t forget.”

  “And that would be what?” I ask.

  “You didn’t get smoke rings puffed in your face by Chinese soldiers this time.”

  We exchange a small smile. But that’s the most we’re going to get or give.

  “Want an update on my latest lawsuit, nuffing to do with caviar?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Didn’t think so.”

  So long. So long. We shake hands. No question of a hug; I’ve had plenty with the others.

  “Get that goldfish a bigger bowl, will you please?” I say.

  “Right. And you check both ways before crossing the street.”

  I’m out the door, down the elevator, crossing the silent lobby where the usual patients shuffle sadly about in their dingy Yankee uniforms. I’m going to miss this Giant Mushroom of Hope and Dread, with its glittering marble floors and carpets of broken calligraphy. I leave the hospital for the last time, followed by a maid who polishes off my footsteps so there’s no trace of me left. No sooner am I down the steps to the sidewalk than Abu putters up on his motor scooter, wearing childlike woolen mittens, badminton rackets in a pouch over his shoulder like a quiver of arrows. He’s unhappy because his father’s in such dire straits, but he insists on taking me to the train station, my suitcase on my lap, so I can make my way back to Beijing.

  “Come visit me in America,” I say when he drops me off at the station. “We’ll play badminton in my backyard.”

  “Or come to Pakistan,” he says, “for an excellent holiday.”

  Well, that’s maybe not the first place I’d go for an excellent holiday just now, but who knows? We shake hands good-bye. After I walk into the station, it occurs to me that he still had his mittens on when we shook. With that single gesture, that lack of skin contact, I receive the information that we are not deeply befriended. Larry got the kidney before Abu’s dad did, and besides, there are political differences. If America were to find itself in a war with Pakistan, Abu would hesitate only long enough to say a prayer before slitting my throat. Sunny-side-up dude I may still be, after all that’s happened here these past two months, but a dumb one I am not.

  Or am I ever.

  CHAPTER 20

  The Art of War

  It is only when the cold season comes that we know the cypress to be evergreen.

  Home sweet home. It’s good to be back among so many Western faces, so much English lettering. Except I’m not in America but Beijing, which only feels like home after I’ve spent seven weeks in Shi. Suddenly I’m filled with nostalgia for scruffy old Massage Central with its repainted cabs and screeching bikes. I have a few hours to kill before I have dinner with Jade and then proceed to the airport, so I decide to pay my respects to the rooftop of my old luxury hotel. Great view from up there, of my life if not of the city. Then I decide to pay a visit to Alfred, the bow-tied dean from the Shabbos service who asked me to keep in touch. We greet each other like old friends in the rotunda of the foreign-language institute, but when I start to debrief him, he shushes me with a finger to his lips and without another word walks me to the institute’s cafeteria for a snack. Only there, amid the bustle of scattered diners, does he speak again, telling me that the temple has been praying for Larry every Friday night since I left Beijing—a Misheberah, prayer for those in need of healing.

  “Really?” I say, pushing my plastic tray along the rack. “I’m touched. I wasn’t aware that was going on.”

  “If I may be so bold, Daniel,” he says, using an ice-cream scoop to dig out a healthy dollop of potato salad. “I daresay there are many things of which you are not aware.”

  I want to know what he means.

  “It’s okay now, it worked out safely,” he tells me. “We did have a few scary days there, however.”

  Now I really want to know what he means.

  “Daniel,” he says, “you’re a reasonably attractive man.”

  “Okay,” I say, taken aback.

  “But then again, I’m a man of sixty-four,” he continues. “That is to say, I’m not a woman of twenty-four. Do you honestly think you’re so irresistible that young Chinese women trip over themselves for the pleasure of squiring you around?”

  “I’m not sure I understand,” I say, but even as I’m saying the words, I’m feeling a trickle of the old charley horse or something related, some echo of something I’ve purposefully kept muted in my musculature the past two months.

  “Perhaps you understand more than you think you do,” he says, selecting a bowl of crimson Jell-O.

  “What do you mean?”

  A pause as he pays the cashier. “You’ve been very lucky these past two months,” he says.

  “I’ve been excruciatingly lucky. I’m very grateful. So?” I follow his backside through the semicrowded cafeteria. “You’re saying I’m luckier than I know?”

  The whole way across the room, the echo inside me is turning into heat, which is turning into an itch. In my chest, which I can’t scratch because I’m carrying a tray. I’m suddenly very uncomfortable.

  “What are we talking about?” I repeat as we find a table.

  He’s opaque as he pulls out a chair and sits down, then fiddles in the briefcase at his feet. “Daniel, do you not read the papers? Are you not aware that there are reports almost every day about the amount of surveillance that goes on in this country?”

  My knees itch madly. I feel like a monkey, wanting to scratch everywhere.

 
“Look, right here,” Alfred says, producing a couple of newspapers. “Just this morning a report that over half the foreign journalists based in China have been spied on or detained. Don’t get me wrong, it’s always been bad, but since the world began focusing its spotlight on Beijing with the Olympics, it’s become, let us say, pervasive.”

  “Okay-okay, I get it,” I say, even though I’m uncertain what I get. I’m too busy clawing at the itch surfacing in the unlikeliest places: my eyebrows, my armpits.

  “And you’re an American writer poking around on your own; of course they’d want to know what you’re up to. Not to say that you’re not perfectly attractive on your own merits, but I mean, c’mon, Daniel: twenty-four?”

  “I’m trying my best to misunderstand you,” I say, tongue-tied. Now it’s the small of my back that’s itching.

  “Don’t take it so hard,” he says, gauging my reaction closely. “It’s in the culture—a tradition of deep strategic thinking that’s as old as the country itself. In their ancient book The Art of War, written in the sixth century B.C., they talk about the importance of placing spies in the opposite camp to learn what they were up to. China is a nation that takes its espionage very seriously.”

  I know all this yet am a ridiculous mass of symptoms: itchy, coughy, confused, upset.

  “You’re feeling like an idiot,” he says, reading my thoughts. “But look, when I first came to the institute, I was astonished to learn there were more than two hundred teachers who volunteered to read the e-mail of their fellow faculty. They considered it a privilege to spy on one another for their beloved mother country. Even today I estimate that a third of my staff is state security.”

  I’m a monkey idiot, busy tracking my itches. That word “spy,” I abhor its sound….

  “So let me ask you, did it really never occur to you when your waitress said she would be your guide for free…?”