The Secret Letters of the Monk Who Sold His Ferrari (11 page)

When the king awoke the next morning, he was astonished to see towering before him a majestic pyramid. The dwarf’s life was spared, and the pyramid became known as the Temple of the Magician.

“In some versions of the story, the dwarf himself is created by the old woman overnight. In others, he is set many feats of strength and tests, including the building of the pyramid. But what each version has in common,” said Chava, “is the idea that this extraordinary structure was created in the space of just one night.”

Chava took two water bottles out of his pack. He passed one to me and took a swig out of the other, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Perhaps it’s because of the work I do,” he continued, “but that story delights me. It tells us so much about our dreams, our desires. What does the king wish for? No, it’s not so much that he wants a great temple. He could have had his subjects build him that at any time. What he wants is for this remarkable creation to happen overnight!”

“I guess nothing changes,” I said with a laugh. “Everyone wants everything in a hurry.”

“Yes, exactly,” said Chava. “But that is just not possible, is it? After all, the accomplishment of the king’s task proves that the dwarf is, in fact, a magician. It is not in the power of a mere human to make something truly marvelous in an instant. People need patience. People need to build things slowly, one brick at a time. As much as we would love to achieve great things quickly, it is not the way our world works. Genius is a process.”

Chava had placed his canvas knapsack on his lap and was digging around inside. After a few seconds, he pulled out a small cloth bag and handed it to me.

“Shall I open this now?” I asked. Chava nodded.

The top of the red woven bag was tied with a bit of string. I worked at the knot until it fell open, and then lifted the bag and emptied its contents onto my lap. There was a note and a tiny red clay object. I picked it up and looked at it. It appeared to be a miniature model of a pyramid.

I unfolded the piece of paper and read the words on it.

Make Small Daily Progress

The way we do small things determines the way that we do everything. If we execute our minor tasks well, we will also excel at our larger efforts. Mastery then becomes our way of being. But more than this—each tiny effort builds on the next, so that brick by brick, magnificent things can be created, great confidence grows and uncommon dreams are realized. The truly wise recognize that small daily improvements always lead to exceptional results over time.

The sun was considerably higher in the sky than it had been at the start of our climb. Its heat was beginning to press down
on me. I lifted the corner of my shirt and wiped some perspiration from my brow.

Chava looked over and immediately began to stand up.

“I’m sorry for keeping you so long up here,” he said. “I know you are not used to the temperatures. Let’s head out. On the way down, I want to show you one more thing.”

We began our descent, which I found more difficult than the climb up. Walking down the steep, narrow steps, facing out across the plaza, made me realize the heights I’d scaled and the absence of anything that might prevent me from slipping and crashing down these smooth stone steps. I was relieved when Chava signaled me to stop lowering myself and instead move along sideways. Chava was ahead of me, but eventually he stopped in front of a large arched doorway that opened along one side of the pyramid.

“This,” Chava said, with a flourish of his hand toward the doorway, “is the irony of that legend, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Really?” I said.

“This pyramid was supposed to have been built overnight, but nothing could be further from the truth,” said Chava. “Instead, it was built over hundreds of years. In fact, it was rebuilt again and again. Five times! And each time the new pyramid was constructed on top of the old. My ancestors thought this imbued the temple with all the accumulated power and greatness of its predecessor. This doorway is just a remnant of one of the earlier pyramids that was here. What you see around it was added on later.”

“Wow,” I said. I was looking up at the carvings of mystical creatures, or perhaps Mayan gods, that ran along the door frame. It was intricate, detailed artistry. It would indeed have
been magic if anything like this happened in months, never mind overnight.

“Yesterday I was telling you that I hope my work will uncover clues about the end of the Mayan Empire,” said Chava. “But the beginnings are what really interest me—how all this came to be. You talk about an archaeological dig being painstaking work, but the creation of a civilization, the building of vast cities, these pyramids here—
that
is slow, painstaking work.”

I nodded, and we were both quiet for a minute.

“It is good to remember that,” Chava said quietly. “That every big dream starts small.”

I
T WAS
C
HAVA
who took me to the airport in Mérida the next day. The drive was almost two hours long, and after chatting amiably for the first half-hour we fell silent. I took out my phone, but I still couldn’t get a signal. I started to scroll through some of my pictures. I paused over a shot of Adam in his soccer uniform, his foot resting uncertainly on a ball.

Chava glanced over. “You are feeling a bit homesick,” he said.

“Yeah,” I said.

“You are on your way home, Jonathan,” he replied after a moment. “You are on your way home.”

We had passed through the small town of Ticul, past scruffy farmland and rocky pastures. We sat without talking for a little longer before I pulled my journal from my backpack and took out the most recent note. I had been writing my reflections about the journey, the talismans and the letters in the journal, as Julian had asked. I wasn’t entirely sure what I thought of this most recent message.

Eventually Chava looked toward the notebook on my lap and said, “Jonathan, did Sikina tell you about our son, Avali?”

“Just that he lives in Mexico City, and she misses him,” I replied.

That made Chava laugh loudly. I looked at him quizzically.

“Sorry,” said Chava, “I can’t believe she stopped there. Avali is a doctor. Sikina is very proud of him. Usually, that’s one of the first things she tells people.”

“I can understand,” I said, “why she would be proud.”

There was a beat of silence and then Chava continued.

“When Avali was eight years old he came to me and said, ‘Papa, I want to become a doctor and help sick people. How do I do it?’ Now, Jonathan, what could I say? Sikina and I, neither one of us went to university. Most of my family hadn’t got past elementary school. And not just that. None of us had ever left Yucatán. I had no idea how someone would become a doctor. But there was little Avali, with all the hope of a child, and I realized that I did know one thing. I pulled him on my lap, and I said, ‘Son, this is how you begin. Tomorrow, you go to school, and you listen to everything the teacher says. And you work harder than you have ever worked. And then you come home and tell me what you’ve learned.’”

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

W
HEN
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.

L
LUIS 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. W
elcome 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 persistently 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.

L
LUIS 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 discomfiting 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.