“I don’t know how to play mahjong.”
“You should learn.”

It had been a nice lunch and after eating, ideas had been given as to how to spend the afternoon. KTV and cards were suggested, then mahjong. I’d wanted to play for a long time but I’d never learned how. Now, after two years, I was being offered the chance.

“Just as long as we don’t play for money.”

At an upscale, empty teahouse, the four of us were led upstairs to some rooms, each with a green felt covered table and four chairs at its center. On our table stretched four long rows of facedown, double-stacked tiles. One of my companions briefly explained the rules (“very easy”) while another encouraged our fúwùyuán (server) to help me. She warily begged off, sending in a friendly looking, non-English speaking male attendant.

“Okay. So I need four sets and a pair to go out. Anything else I need to know?”
“No. That’s it.” My rule-explaining companion sounded confident.

We began playing. My coach, peering over my shoulder, would either enthusiastically give me a big thumbs up and a “Duì!” whenever I did something right or point at the correct tile to discard if I paused for more than a second. Refusing to pitch one that had completed a sequential set, my rule-explaining companion was summoned to clarify.

“That’s nine sticks, not six sticks.”
“Oh. I knew that.”

A minute later, he very proudly went out with seven pairs.

“Hey! I thought you needed three sets and a pair to win.”
“Oh. This is an exception to that rule.”
“Are there any other exceptions that I should know about?”
“In Canton there may be more, but here in Nanjing, this is the only one.”

My coach was now playing for my friend, who had a headache and was sitting in an easy chair reading the newspaper. After winning the hand he left – a woman who apparently knew somebody in our group had shown up and taken his place. I was getting the hang of things though, building up my four sets (in poker parlance, either three of a kind or a three card straight flush) and one pair, and late in the hand, I needed only one more tile to win. Then I “pènged.” Amidst shaking heads, I was told that I would now need to pèng everything or draw four “flowers,” of which I had only one, in order to go out. Ruined.

“I thought I didn’t need to know anything else!”
“You pènged.”
“You didn’t tell me that the rules changed if I did that!”
“In your case, we can ignore it.”
“Bullshit. I’ll play the game the way it’s supposed to be played.”

The hand soon won (by the lady), my companion began offering tips. I stopped him.

“Rules. I need to know the rules. Are there any others?”
“Well…there are the big ones and the little ones…”
“And what are those?”
“With the big ones you don’t need four flowers and with the little ones you do.”
“Okay. What exactly are the big ones?”
“Seven pairs are very big!”
“Anything else?”
“Well…if you are interested I can download the instructions and e-mail them to you.”
“Okay, but what do I do now?”
“Well…it’s a very complicated game.”

Things had gotten quiet. Visibly upset, I’d lost some face. I couldn’t help it. It wasn’t losing, nor was it my companion (who was trying his best), so much as the lack of order and explanation – the prime ingredients for chaos – so happily accepted and encouraged here in China. I still haven’t gotten used to it. I calmed down after winning the next hand, which made losing the one after that, when I could have pènged out without four flowers (another exception), a little easier to take. A Chinese friend once called mahjong the essence of China. She may have been joking, I’m not sure. But going back to my place afterwards, I felt, ever so slightly, like a more full-fledged member of its society.