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.

“I doubt it. I picked it up on the street in Ecuador for eight bucks.”

“ Ecuador? For a panama?”

“Little-known fact: Most panamas come from Ecuador,” I say as the intelligent heads nod in receipt of a new fact. How my people love new facts! Information! Data! While they’re taking this in, I scramble to collect myself.

“So you’re standing,” the rabbi observes neutrally. “Does this mean you have a general announcement to make?”

Cool God, here goes nothing, I think, turning to shrug an apology to Izzy in case this backfires. I clear my throat. “Shabbat shalom, everyone,” I say. “I’m Daniel from Massachusetts. I apologize in advance if this isn’t the proper place to say this or if I’m abusing your hospitality, but I’ll just be direct: I’m in Beijing on a mission of mercy. My cousin Larry, whom I referenced before, is dying of end-stage renal disease and I’ve come to Beijing with him to look for a kidney. I realize it’s a controversial subject, and the last thing I want is to offend anyone, but we can’t afford to dillydally. We’ve had no luck all week and are about to give up on China and leave for Manila in two days, so time is of the essence. If anyone has even a faint lead on how to find a healthy kidney, it would be a mitzvah if you would share it with me after the service.”

No one reacts as I sit back down in silence. A deep blush starts in my chest and speeds upward to my scalp. How gauche I am, barging right in and doubtless breaking all kinds of protocol. I’ve probably embarrassed my host, Izzy, half to death. I don’t dare turn around to see the discomfort I’ve caused. Cool God, ouch-sorry me so pushy!

The ceremony breaks up shortly afterward, and I’m left alone with my blush burning the tips of my ears. People hurriedly depart to the right and left of me. I turn around slowly to face Izzy, but he’s split for a buffet table at the back of the room. Maybe I ought to just liquefy myself and dribble down a drain somewhere…

The pretty journalist from New York approaches me.

“Sorry if I overstepped,” I say.

“Hey, ‘chutzpah’ is a Jewish word,” she assures me.

“Yeah, but didn’t I just alienate everyone in the room?”

“They’re still processing,” she says…and sure enough, little by little, members start drifting over.

“So how’s your brother doing?” one of them asks.

“He’s my cousin, and he’s dying,” I say.

“I have an uncle who’s a pulmonary surgeon,” someone else volunteers, “who came here a few years ago to perform a lung transplant.”

“Close but no cigar,” I say, getting my confidence back. “I hear lungs but no kidney. Do I hear a kidney,” I ask, like an auctioneer, the tips of my ears still burning. “Kidney going once, kidney going twice…”

Just then a leopard scarf slides by behind me, close enough to brush my shirt. “Talk to me when you get a chance,” the Australian accent says.

Ten minutes later Antonia is giving me her business card and telling me she’ll try to call me tomorrow. Of course the transplantation of organs to Westerners is illegal and her company would never put itself in a position to help me directly, she says, but perhaps she can make a few discreet calls on my cousin’s behalf.

“It is illegal, for sure? That’s one of the points we’ve been unclear about.”

“Because the law is more fluid in China than you’re used to at home, it’s not as black and white,” she says, “and it’s frequently tailored to meet local conditions. But yes, it is indeed illegal, since they passed a Restriction a while back. Apparently the feeling was that the West was making such a fuss about China’s transplant business-questioning whether organs came from political dissidents or religious radicals-that China said, ‘All right, then, you can’t have any.’ And that was that. But here people don’t have the same general attitude against it that there is in the West. It’s not frowned upon ethically the way it is in much of your United States.”

“Well, I’m suspending all ethical considerations because he’s my cousin.”

Antonia comprehends this implicitly. “Those considerations are fine until it’s your flesh and blood, isn’t that right?” she says. “So Izzy tells me you’re a writer. What sort?”

“I write about my life and the things I see happening around me. You could call me an investigative memoirist, I guess.”