The Secret Letters of the Monk Who Sold His Ferrari

by Robin S. Sharma

  Chava was smiling softly, as if he could see his young son in front of him. He nodded his head slightly, and then continued.

  “So he began. Each test, each assignment, I told him, ‘Do well on this, and you are on your way to becoming a doctor.’ None of us knew the road ahead, so we just concentrated on the step before us. As he got older, we talked to everyone we knew—the archaeologists and researchers at the sites I was working on, the nurses and doctors at the hospital, even tourists we met at the ruins or in town. Slowly but surely, Avali, Sikina and I figured out the next steps. Before we knew it, Avali was graduating from university in Mexico City.”

  “Small daily improvements can lead to great things, right?” I said.

  “The tiniest of actions is always better than the boldest of intentions,” said Chava. “And results always speak louder than words.”

  Like the other safekeepers, Chava clearly understood, and lived, the wisdom of the talisman he had guarded. He saw it in his job, he saw it with his son. But how would it look in my life? I wasn’t sure what precious achievement I should be striving for, what accomplishments—and dreams—I should be taking my small steps toward. I used to think it was that CEO job, or the enormous house, or even a Ferrari, like Julian had. But now, I wasn’t sure. It was not until we reached the airport that I scribbled something in the journal. Push-ups, I wrote. I would start the day tomorrow with twenty push-ups. I would go from there.

  I FOUND IT SURPRISINGLY hard to say good-bye to Chava. He and Sikina had reminded me so much of my parents. And I found myself wanting to spend more time with his family. Perhaps if I had been going home, I wouldn’t have felt that way. But I was heading again into the unknown—Barcelona this time. In the airport, I managed to get a signal. I phoned Annisha, but I got her voicemail. I decided to write Adam and Annisha another note, telling them about my Mexican stay, but when I opened my inbox, I noticed a message from Tessa. That was odd. We weren’t working on anything together.

  Hi Jonathan, it started.

  I was talking to Nawang today, asking when you’d be back. She said she didn’t know. She thinks that you may not return at all. I couldn’t believe how much that upset me. And that got me thinking. I don’t know quite how to say this, so I’m just going to plunge right in. The rumor around the office is that you are in the process of getting a divorce. Maybe it’s too soon for you, but I have always felt there was something between us. If you don’t come back to work here, I wouldn’t want to think that we’d missed an opportunity to get together. I think that we might be good for each other. Anyhow, I’m babbling. Just wanted to let you know that I’m thinking about you.

  Tessa

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  WHEN I WAS FIVE, my father took me to my first basketball game. It wasn’t the NBA, but it was the most exciting game I have ever seen.

  It was the elementary school semifinals, held at Parkview Public School, where my father taught sixth grade. I had been there the previous summer, when my dad set up his classroom for the first day of school. My sister and I colored on scrap paper while Dad put up posters of animals and strange people. The posters all had writing on them, and I had no idea what they were about. But it was clear to me that my father must be truly brilliant to teach math, and reading, and everything else to boys and girls of the advanced age of eleven.

  This basketball game, however, was the first indication that my father had skills and responsibilities which transcended his classroom gifts. I sat on the end of a long wooden bench in an enormous gym. Boys who looked old and big enough to be adults—in my eyes, at least—stretched down the length of the seat. My father was talking to them, giving instructions. And each of those boys had his eyes on my father—absorbing every word he said as if he were sharing with them the secrets of the universe.

  I don’t remember any of the game. The only thing that has stuck with me is the way my chest swelled each time my dad talked to his team, and each time he looked over at me and smiled.

  By fourth grade, however, that game was in the distant past, and my pride had been replaced by worry. My teacher that year was Mrs. Higginbottom—a woman who sometimes came to work with a forgotten curler sticking in the back of her hair. She wore such outrageously mismatched clothes that even nine-year-old boys took notice. Mrs. Higginbottom managed to keep control of the class only with the help of Mrs. Dorman, from the classroom next door, and frequent visits from the principal. But even the constant threat of detentions and extra homework couldn’t keep us from congregating in the school yard at recess to come up with rude nicknames for her. Mrs. Higginbottom was making it clear to me that teachers were not necessarily figures of respect; that teachers could often be the butt of the joke.

  I was pretty certain my father was nothing like Mrs. Higginbottom—that kids didn’t copy from each other’s tests the moment his back was turned, or try to fool him into thinking he had lost whole assignments that they had never bothered to hand in. But I couldn’t stop asking the question: if they let Mrs. Higginbottom be a teacher, what did that say about Dad?

  By seventh grade, my kindergarten view of Dad’s godlike status had vanished. Now all I could think of was that my father had chosen to spend his life hanging out with little kids. My friends’ fathers were doctors and lawyers, forklift operators and businessmen. They drove home at the end of the day with expensive briefcases stuffed with files, or white hardhats in the back windows of their trucks. My dad came home with piles of clumsily put together booklets on “Ainshint Egipt” and stacks of worksheets on fractions and decimals.

  By high school, I was certain. The reason Dad was an elementary school teacher, the reason he clung to this position, was that he had no ambition—a deficit so marked that he failed to comprehend or acknowledge the embarrassment of his career. I discovered that he had been approached many times to become a vice principal or a principal but had turned down each offer. His line was that he loved the classroom—and if he couldn’t teach, he would rather do something else altogether. But I knew the truth: Dad was some kind of lazy nut.

  By the time I was working full-time myself, I had come to recognize that, of course, Dad was nothing like Mrs. Higginbottom. I could see that he truly loved what he was doing, and that he was good at it. But the question of ambition continued to nag at me.

  That’s what I was thinking about as Lluis Costa told me his story.

  LLUIS HAD MET ME at the Barcelona airport. Like Ahmet, he was holding up a little sign with my name on it. He was probably in his early thirties, but he had a boyish look about him, his dark brown curls cropped close to his head. He was wearing a crisp navy blazer and dark gray slacks. His bright red tie flashed against the whiteness of his shirt.

  “Hola, hola. Welcome Jonathan,” he said. “Lluis Costa at your service. It is a great pleasure to meet a member of Julian’s family.”

  Before I could even respond, Lluis placed his hands on my upper arms, leaned forward and kissed me on both cheeks.

  “Now,” he said, putting his arm around my shoulders, “let us get to know each other better over a nice dinner and a good bottle of wine.”

  Lluis’s familiarity made me a bit uncomfortable. I had enjoyed the time I spent with Ahmet, Ayame, Chava and Sikina, but I wasn’t on a mission to make new friends. I really just wanted to get the talismans. And get home.

  Lluis led me out of the terminal and to the taxi stand outside the doors. Instead of heading to the first cab in line, he made a beeline to the last car. Lluis opened the back door with a flourish, sweeping his hand toward the empty seat as if to say, “after you.” I didn’t move, however. It was clear that the cab was empty. Completely empty.

  “Lluis,” I said, “There’s no driver. The taxi driver isn’t in the car.”

  “No, of course not,” said Lluis. “He was meeting you inside. I’m the driver, Jonathan. This is my taxi.”

  It seemed odd to sit in the backseat when my companion, taxi driver or not, was in the front seat, but Lluis was persi
stently directing me into the car. Once I was seated, he popped the trunk and put my luggage inside. I could see him waving and calling out to some of the other drivers as he made his way around to the driver’s side. Lluis had a joyfulness that you don’t often see in cab drivers, or at least not the ones in my town. After he climbed behind the wheel, he turned to me.

  “So, Jonathan. Have you been to Barcelona before?”

  When I shook my head, Lluis nodded. “Ah, then, you are in luck. You’ve got the right driver to show you around. But first—you must be tired. I’ve booked you into a superb hotel in the Eixample district. I will get you there so you can freshen up and rest. And then I’ll pick you back up about nine p.m., so we can have dinner on the waterfront. Is that agreeable?’

  I had to admit that Lluis was a good driver. He seemed to move in and out of the traffic with ease. The air in the taxi was cool, but not cold. Classical music played softly. I noticed a small caddy over the back of the driver’s seat. In it was a box of tissues, a bottle of hand sanitizer and some packages of towelettes. A hanging folder over the back of the passenger seat contained two stacks of colorful flyers. I pulled a flyer out from each stack—a tourist map of Barcelona and a gallery guide. I wondered if all taxis in Barcelona were this well supplied.

  As we got into the city center, Lluis began to weave through the narrow streets.

  “This may not be the most direct way, but it is the most scenic. I thought you might like to take a look at some of the nineteenth-century architecture in this part of town. It is quite stunning.”

  Lluis was right. Many of the buildings reminded me of the art nouveau structures of Paris and New York, with their embellished stone facades, cast-iron balconies and long, mullioned windows.

  “Wow,” I gasped as we passed by an ornate church—all dripping spires and soft crenellation.

  “Ah, yes, Antoni Gaudí’s Sagrada Família. Barcelona’s most renowned architect. Tomorrow, if you are interested, we will come back here. No one should leave Barcelona before getting up close to Gaudí’s work.”

  We continued past the church, turned a corner and then stopped at a red light. When it changed to green, Lluis stepped gently on the gas. We hadn’t even reached the center of the intersection when the roar of an accelerating engine made me snap my head around. Another taxi on the cross street was barreling through the red light. It showed no signs of slowing as it raced toward us. I was sure it was about to strike the door right next to my seat. My heart jumped as I dove to the other side and covered my head with my arms. Then I heard squealing tires and the sickening screech of metal against metal. But miraculously our car was still moving smoothly, although more slowly now. I raised my head and looked up. Lluis was carefully pulling our taxi over to the side of the street on the other side of the intersection. He had narrowly managed to fly ahead of the speeding car to avoid being hit. After stopping, Lluis put his hazard lights on and then turned to me.

  “Are you okay, Jonathan?” he asked.

  I nodded. We both looked out the rearview window. The other cab was crushed up into the grill of a car on the opposite side of the cross street. There were skid marks snaking through the center of the intersection where the taxi had obviously slid and twisted after the driver had slammed on the brakes.

  Before I could gather my wits about me, Lluis had jumped out of the car and was dashing toward the accident. By the time I reached the scene, he had helped a stunned-looking woman and a small frightened girl out of the backseat of the other cab. The woman was holding her head, and Lluis was bending down to talk to the child. The driver of the car that the taxi had hit had managed to get his door open and was standing unsteadily on the street. He looked shaken but unharmed.

  I leaned into the front passenger window of the stranded cab. The driver was slumped forward, his face resting against the steering wheel. Blood was dripping from his forehead.

  The police and an ambulance arrived a few minutes later. By that time, the cab driver had regained consciousness and was trying to tell Lluis what had happened. He seemed very young and very upset. Eventually the paramedics approached and started to check the cabbie’s injuries. Lluis and I moved over to the squad car to give our statements to the police. Lluis translated for me, and then we waited for the taxi passenger to explain what she had seen. The paramedics offered to send another ambulance to take the mother to the hospital, to be checked out, but she said she and her daughter felt fine. Once the ambulance had pulled away and all the officials were gone, Lluis approached the woman again, talking softly. Eventually she nodded her head and Lluis turned to me.

  “I’ve convinced her to let me take her to the hospital, just to be on the safe side. I hope you don’t mind one more short delay, Jonathan,” said Lluis.

  “Of course not,” I answered.

  LLUIS RETURNED TO THE CAB after escorting the woman and her daughter into the emergency ward.

  “I’m so sorry you had to start your visit to Barcelona that way, Jonathan,” he said.

  “Please don’t worry about me,” I said. I had to admit that the accident had unnerved me, but if Lluis hadn’t been my driver it could have been so much worse. I was feeling fortunate, not hard done by.

  Twenty minutes later we pulled up to a white stone building with arched windows and cast-iron planters. A liveried bellman was positioned outside a large brass revolving door. Lluis parked his car in the spot designated for taxis and waved at the bellman before hopping out of the car. I saw him hurry over to open my door but got out of the car first. Lluis pulled my luggage from the trunk. As we approached the hotel, the bellman greeted him by name and they exchanged a few words as the bellman opened a heavy glass door next to the revolving one. Once inside the lobby, Lluis waved at a porter who was heading toward us and went straight for the concierge desk. A tall, thin man stood behind the desk, reading something. When he looked up and saw Lluis walking toward him, he threw up his hands and called out, “Bon dia, Lluis!”

  He came out from behind the desk to embrace Lluis before turning to me.

  “This is the honored guest I was telling you about. Jonathan Landry, a relative of Julian’s,” said Lluis.

  The concierge was effusive. “I have a wonderful room for you,” he said. “But if there is anything else we can do for you, you must let me know.”

  He handed me a room key and waved at the porter. I said my good-byes to Lluis and then followed the porter to the elevators. My room was on the eighth floor. I took a deep breath when the doors opened and walked in quickly before I changed my mind.

  When we arrived upstairs, the porter opened the door, settled my bags and then left. It was an elegant room: large and airy, with big windows that looked over the street and a park in the distance. An enormous vase of white tulips sat on a table by the window, and a basket of fruit and chocolate was on the dresser. I kicked off my shoes, flopped onto the king-sized bed and pulled out my phone.

  When I had received Tessa’s message, I’d written back immediately. Not to Tessa but to Nawang. What was she telling everyone? Of course I’m coming back, I wrote. I don’t always have good cell phone reception, but I am checking my inbox as often as I can. Please keep me informed of any problems or developments. I will do my best to respond as quickly as possible.

  During the flight from Mexico I had frequently returned to Tessa’s message. It had snapped me out of my homesickness. First, it had made me worried again about my job. Was Nawang using my absence to maneuver herself into my position? I always felt I could trust her, but had I been naive? Or was this David’s way of getting back at me for inconveniencing him? Was he suggesting to my clients that Nawang was now in charge?

  While my mind was besieged with all sorts of paranoid thoughts, I could still hear the faint echo of Julian’s words: If we are mistrustful of others, we are distrustful of ourselves. Perhaps I had to be on my toes, but this crazy worry would do no good at all. And I sure didn’t like the way it was making me feel.

  More d
iscomfiting than my career concerns, however, was Tessa’s personal message. Of course, there had been something between Tessa and me over the past few months. It was one of the things that perked me up when times were rough. After an argument with Annisha or a lonely night in the apartment, I would walk into the office and see Tessa’s smiling face. But it was always an abstract kind of thing. Now, however, Tessa had made it concrete, real.

  WHEN I ARRIVED BACK in the lobby at nine, I immediately spotted Lluis’s dapper frame. He was standing next to one side of the doors, his hands behind his back, rocking back and forth slightly on his heels. He was obviously waiting for me, but the gentle smile on his face suggested that he didn’t mind.

  His cab was parked on the street outside the doors of the hotel. This time, he let me sit in the front seat with him. As we drove, Lluis chatted amiably.

  “Too bad that you have so little time in this fantastic city,” he said. “There is so much to see. I always say that this is a city of artistic brilliance.”

  We were clearly heading into a much older part of the city. The streets were becoming increasingly narrow and dark.

  “Really?” I said.

  “Oh, I know, when people think of exceptional artists they think of Florence, Rome, Paris. They think of the Uffizi or the Sistine Chapel or the Louvre. But Barcelona—Barcelona is the home of so many great artists of the last century. Joan Miró, Salvador Dalí, Pablo Picasso. And, of course, the brilliant architect Antoni Gaudí. Geniuses all.”