The Secret Letters of the Monk Who Sold His Ferrari

Juan. There wasn’t a day I didn’t think about my old boss, my old friend. As the months passed, I had found it increasingly difficult not to be distracted by his absence. I often found myself waking up in the night, unable to fall back to sleep, going over and over events in my mind, reliving my part in the whole disaster. But no matter how often I replayed it, I couldn’t put it behind me. Getting away from it all was probably the best thing I could do.

THE NEXT FEW DAYS were a maelstrom. I scrambled to resolve things at work. I let loose a tsunami of messages and phone calls. I blew around town, doing banking, picking up dry cleaning, attempting drive-by visits with my son. Even packing was chaotic—how did I know what to take if I didn’t even know all the places I would be heading to?

And then I was sitting on the red-eye flight. To Turkey. On my way to meet a friend of Julian’s. My phone was turned off; there was no paperwork in my overhead luggage. I had many quiet hours by myself with nothing I had to do, nothing I could do. I was hoping to rest, but my mind was still racing. I took out a piece of paper from my jacket pocket. Julian had sent me a brief note with the airline tickets.

“Thank you,” it said, “for taking time away from your family and your work to take this voyage. I know you had a dozen reasons not to go, but one of the best gifts we can give ourselves is to get rid of our excuses. Rudyard Kipling once wrote, ‘We have forty million reasons for failure, but not a single excuse.’ And the dangerous thing about excuses is that if we recite them enough times, we actually come to believe they are true. This task I’ve asked you to do involves a lot of travel, but I hope that you can focus on the opportunities it provides rather than the inconveniences it may pose. Life itself is a journey after all, and what matters most is not what you are getting, but who you are becoming.”

Julian had also sent a small leather pouch on a long cord. I was supposed to wear it around my neck and put the talismans in it as I collected them. For now, it was in my jacket pocket. I fingered the soft leather absentmindedly.

Everyone around me on the plane was falling asleep. There was a gentle hum of the engines; the subtle rattle of the drinks cart disappearing to the back. I closed my eyes. I thought about Annisha and Adam. Somehow I knew, being so far away, I would miss them all the more. Then I thought about the other people missing from my life. My dad’s absence was a dull ache that was lodged in my chest. But it was pain with a certain gentleness, accompanied as it was by so many happy memories. Then there was Juan. Julian’s words came back to me. “It’s not every day you get to save a life.”

Wasn’t that the truth?

CHAPTER THREE

JULIAN HAD NOT GIVEN ME a list of the places I would be going or the names of the safekeepers I would meet. “Different locations” was all he would reveal in Buenos Aires. “Europe, Asia, North America. I haven’t managed to contact everyone yet,” he had said. I would start, however, in Istanbul, where I would meet his old friend Ahmet Demir.

“Ahmet will meet you at the airport. I know he’ll want to show you a little of his wonderful city, but, I’m sorry, you won’t have much time to play tourist. You’re booked to fly to Paris the following day.”

Play tourist! That made me laugh. I just wanted to get these talisman things as quickly as possible and get back to work. Even as I stumbled off the plane at the Atatürk airport, I was snapping on my phone, checking for messages from Nawang, thinking about what might be happening in my absence at the office. There were a number from people asking me how long I would be gone. A message from my mother was chipper and evasive. I had asked her if she knew anything more about who Julian was trying to help with these talismans, but she was claiming to be unsure. I didn’t believe her—I had heard the emotion in her voice.

The messages on my phone kept me distracted as I made my way through the long passport line and the baggage claim. So when I finally stood at the arrivals exit with my suitcase in hand, it was the first time I had wondered how I might recognize this Ahmet fellow—how we were expected to find each other in the crowd.

As I scanned the gathering of family members, drivers and other eager people clustered in the arrivals lobby, I spotted a tall man holding up a sign with my name on it. He had silver hair, a short gray beard and a warm grin. I gave him a little wave and headed over.

When I got close, Ahmet dropped his sign and took my outstretched hand in his, pumping it vigorously. “Ho

geldiniz, ho

geldiniz,” he said. “A pleasure to meet a member of Julian’s family. I am honored.”

I muttered something inadequate in reply, overwhelmed by Ahmet’s enthusiasm.

“You have everything?” asked Ahmet. “Are you ready to go?” I nodded, and Ahmet picked up the sign, placed his hand gently on my elbow and guided me out of the terminal.

Ahmet led me through the crowded car park and stopped in front of a shiny silver Renault. “Here we are,” he announced, taking my bag and popping the trunk. I opened the passenger door and was just sliding across the seat when my phone started to beep. “Excuse me,” I said to Ahmet. I buckled my seat belt and started to read.

A message from Nawang said that she had received a call from one of my clients. An alarming number of complaints had come in from the man’s dealers about a new component we had designed for their most popular sedan model. I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. This was the kind of thing that could lead to a recall, if not some kind of financial claim against us. Nawang would need to get the quality control department started on testing to get to the bottom of the problem.

“I’m sorry,” I said to Ahmet as he pulled out of the parking lot. “I just have to send out a few messages. Work emergency.” Ahmet nodded kindly. “Do what you have to do,” he said. “We will get acquainted soon enough.”

The car hurtled along, although I saw nothing of the world we moved through. My eyes were glued to the screen of my phone. I was vaguely aware of a congested highway and speeding traffic, then of moving across a bridge over water. But by the time I really looked up, we were weaving in and out of narrow streets, the car clearly headed up a steady incline.

Ahmet seemed to notice that he had me back.

“I thought that after your long flight you may want to clean up a bit before we head out again. I am taking you to my apartment in Beyog? lu.”

We were moving slowly now, past cafés and shops, narrow sidewalks filled with pedestrians, low-rise buildings of gray and yellow stone and brick. Ahead I could see a tower rising at the top of the hill, a blue-gray peak pointing into the sky, with two rows of windows below. There were people moving around a walkway outside the upper set of windows.

“The Galata Tower,” said Ahmet. “Stunning views of the city from there.”

Ahmet slowed and pulled the car into a small space on the street.

“Here we are,” he said, pointing to the three-story building next to us. Out on the sidewalk, Ahmet opened the heavy wooden door of the building and ushered me in. There was a set of marble stairs in front of us.

“You don’t mind climbing, do you?” said Ahmet.

“Not at all,” I replied.

AHMET’S APARTMENT WAS beautifully furnished, the floors covered with elegantly patterned carpets, the brocade sofa adorned with brightly colored pillows, the walls tastefully appointed with framed pictures of seabirds and boats, flora and fauna. But it seemed curiously impersonal. Julian had told me that Ahmet was a ferry captain. I had imagined him living in more rustic quarters.

“As you may have guessed, I don’t spend much time here,” said Ahmet. “I bought this apartment several years ago, as an investment. Usually it is rented out to foreigners who work in the embassies or businesses in this part of the city. But my wife died a few years ago, and I recently sold our family home in Be

ikta

. So I use this place when I am ferrying the boat or showing people around the old city. The rest of the time, I spend in the village where I grew up, just up the Bosphorus.

“Come,” said Ahmet, walking over to the windows. “Let me show you.”

I hadn’t appreciated how high up we had climbed in the car, or where Ahmet’s building was located, but as I gazed out the living room windows, I became immediately aware of how wonderful his investment had been. Stretched in front of me was the breadth of one of the most amazing sights I have ever seen.

“There,” said Ahmet, pointing to the river below us. “That river, that is the Golden Horn. There’s the Atatürk Bridge and the Galata Bridge. My little boat is docked in that harbor there. And to your left, that great body of water is the Bosphorus Strait. My city continues on the other side of it. But here you stand in Europe. Once on the other side of Istanbul, you stand in Asia.”

I looked across to the Asian continent, but then back to the skyline directly in front of me.

“Ah, yes,” said Ahmet. “That is something, isn’t it? The old city. Sultanahmet. The Bazaar Quarter. Seraglio Point.”

I could see in the distance two enormous complexes with domed roofs and minarets, gardens and walls.

“Hagia Sophia?” I asked. It was the only thing I really knew about Istanbul. The great domed church built by Emperor Justinian when this place was Constantinople, the seat of the Roman Empire, the adoptive home of the Christian Church. It had been converted later into a mosque, the minarets added and the interior modified, but the original mosaics remained. Still stunningly beautiful I had heard.

“The one just to the left,” said Ahmet, pointing. “The Blue Mosque behind her. And the Hippodrome, Topkapi Palace, the Cistern, museums—so much to see.” Ahmet swept his hand back and forth across the vista in front of us. “But this afternoon, I will take you to the Spice Bazaar and the Grand Bazaar before we head for the boat.”

“The boat?”

“Ah, yes,” replied Ahmet, moving away from the window. “I’m sorry. I don’t have the talisman here. It is at my village home, in Anadolu Kava

i.”

I had forgotten all about the reason for my visit.

“We could drive, but what’s the point, really?” Ahmet continued. “A boat is the best way to get there. My son has the boat out this morning for a private tour, so we will go tonight and come back tomorrow morning.” Ahmet was gesturing for me to follow him. “Now I will show you where you can clean up. Then we will have tea and lunch before we head out to the bazaar.”

THE FIRST THING that hit me when we walked into the Spice Bazaar was the fragrance. It was like walking through some sort of aromatic garden, the scents shifting with every step we took, mingling, each overtaking the next.

Stalls followed one after another. There were mounds of dates and other dried fruits, all sorts of nuts, great pyramids of softly colored halvah. There were cylinders of nougat and torrone, and an astonishing assortment of jewel-colored Turkish delight—lokum, Ahmet told me it was called here.

Counters were filled with open boxes of tea. Small hills of ground spices spilled from the front, stall after stall—turmeric, cumin, cardamom, paprika, nutmeg, cinnamon.