The Secret Letters of the Monk Who Sold His Ferrari (12 page)

W
HEN
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.”

I could sense that Lluis was on a roll. We were now in what must have been the Old City area; the patina of centuries clung to each building and cobbled alley. Some of the streets
were so tight that I did not think the car would fit down them, but Lluis, talking all the while, his left hand gesturing in the air, maneuvered through them with ease. Our near-accident clearly hadn’t rattled him.

“Yes, there are so many places in the world where you can see the magnificent works of Picasso. There are about fifty thousand of them after all. But where else in the world can you see the very beginnings of his specialness? Our Picasso museum has his earliest works—the sketches and paintings from his childhood in Spain. You can see the figure studies he did under his father’s guidance. You can see what a brilliant eye he had, even then. It is really something to enjoy those early seeds of his later masterpieces.”

We passed churches and a cathedral, low-rise buildings with ornate iron balconies above and arched doorways below. There were shops shuttered with corrugated steel doors, festooned with graffiti. But eventually we left the cramped streets and were again on major roadways. The ocean came into view. I could see yachts docked in the harbor, their lights twinkling on the black water. Palm trees lined the street, and the invigorating saltiness of the sea hung in the air.

“Barceloneta up ahead,” Lluis said, as we moved past the port area. We turned up a side street away from the water. Lluis wove in and out of the tiny streets and eventually pulled into an alley. “We must walk from here,” he said.

T
HE SMALL, INTIMATE RESTAURANT
appeared to be full of locals. “Too far away from the water for tourists,” said Lluis.

I looked at the menu. It was written in two languages, in
what Lluis explained was Spanish and Catalan. I could make out a few things, but not enough to figure out what I wanted. I looked up from the menu, and Lluis was smiling at me. “Do you like fish and shellfish?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Good,” he said. “It is really a shame to eat in a Catalonian restaurant and not sample the fruits of the sea. Can I order for us?”

Our meal started with a smooth fish bisque, then a platter of grilled vegetables, followed by garlicky prawns, crispy squid and steamed grouper. Lluis ordered wine and filled my glass whenever it dipped low.

Before the food started to arrive, he reached into his pocket.

“I might as well give this to you now. I worry about losing it.” Lluis handed me a brown leather box. It was about four inches long and two inches wide, with a hinged lid. I lifted the brass clasp and opened the top. Lying on top of a piece of folded parchment was a thin, delicate paintbrush. The handle was of smooth dark wood topped with a tuft of fine bristles. I picked up the paintbrush and twirled it gently between my thumb and forefinger. Then I placed it carefully on the table and pulled out the note.

The note was written in black ink. Its neat writing read:

To Lead Your Best Life, Do Your Best Work

There is no insignificant work in the world. All labor is a chance to express personal talents, to create our art and to realize the genius we are built to be. We must work like Picasso painted: with devotion, passion, energy and excellence. In this way, our productivity will not only become a source of inspiration to others, but it will have an impact—making a difference in the lives around us. One of
the greatest secrets to a life beautifully lived is to do work that matters. And to ascend to such a state of mastery in it that people can’t take their eyes off of you.

I put the paintbrush back in the box and slipped it into my pocket. I would transfer the paintbrush to my pouch and the note into my journal when I got back to my hotel room.

“An interesting sentiment, isn’t it?” said Lluis.

“Yes,” I said. “Picasso. Genius-level work. I suppose that is why you are the safekeeper of this particular talisman. Your interest in all of those creative masters, right?”

Lluis laughed.

“Perhaps,” he said. “But I think there’s more to it than that.”

Lluis explained to me that he had met Julian years ago when, by chance, Julian was one of his fares from the airport. Lluis was then driving a cab to pay his way through college. Julian was on a stopover, so he wasn’t going to have much time in Barcelona. He had asked Lluis what he should do, what he should see if he had only one day in the city. Lluis had so much to say, so many ideas and and so much information to exchange that they talked for a considerable time after they reached the hotel. Eventually Julian asked Lluis if he would like to join him for dinner.

“I brought Julian to this same restaurant,” said Lluis. “And we have stayed in touch since then. I think it is everything that has happened to me since that first meeting that made Julian think of me when he was looking for safekeepers for the talismans.”

As we moved from course to course, Lluis told me his story.

He had spent his childhood in a tiny village south of Barce
lona, along the Mediterranean coast. When he was fourteen, his family moved to the city.

“That was such an adventure for me. From a sleepy little village to this.” Lluis swept his hand in front of him. “I know that it is not such a common thing for a young boy, but I loved the galleries. And the history. But most of all, I loved the streets. To be able to walk down La Rambla and see a Miró mosaic, right there, on the ground in front of you. Or to come across a Picasso sculpture, or some medieval church or bit of Roman wall as you wandered through the Barri Gòtic. I would take my bike and spend my spare time crisscrossing the city, to see what I could see.”

When Lluis finished high school, there was much debate in the family about the direction he should take. His father, a businessman, wanted him to become a lawyer. His mother, whose family, like Chava’s, had never attended university, didn’t care as long as he went to school.

Eventually it was an aunt who suggested that he should channel his knowledge and love of the city into a college program in tourism and the hospitality industry.

“My father was disappointed. ‘No ambition,’ he said. He really wanted me to be an attorney, or at least some kind of professional. A neurosurgeon, maybe. Or an orthodontist.”

“An electrical engineer?” I said.

“That would do. But a hotel manager? To my dad, that didn’t quite cut it. Owning the hotel, yes. Working for it, no.”

Lluis tried to ignore his dad. He enrolled, went to classes and drove a cab to pay for it all. When he was done, he got a position in the hotel I was now staying at. He worked as assistant desk manager. Then assistant concierge. Then head concierge.

“It wasn’t long after that I moved into upper management. I was the youngest hotel manager in the city.”

But then, at the end of a very long day, Lluis walked out of the hotel and saw an old friend from his taxi-driving days opening the door of his cab for a hotel guest. He smiled at Lluis and waved, then hopped in the cab and drove off. Lluis watched with a heavy heart as the tail-lights disappeared down the street. Lluis had got to work that morning before the sun was up. He was leaving just as the sun slipped down the horizon. He had barely left his office all day; he hadn’t once stepped outside. It felt as if he had spent his work hours in some sort of suspended animation. And all the time, the world was spinning. Clouds were moving across the sky, birds were calling, people were moving back and forth through the city. The whole place was alive, while he had been without a pulse.

“I had never felt that way when I drove that cab. I always felt energetic, alive, a part of the world. At that moment, on that sidewalk, standing in my expensive suit and freshly polished shoes, I made a decision. I would resign from the hotel. I would go back to the only job I had ever really loved. I would drive a cab.”

Lluis paused and took a sip of his wine.

“And you are happy? Was it the right decision?” I asked.

“Absolutely.”

“Is your father still disappointed?” I asked.

“Oh yes,” said Lluis. “We don’t speak of it anymore, but he treats me as if I’m doing a stint in prison. And you know what the irony is, Jonathan? What really saddens me? This is a man who hates what he does. His own father forced him into the family business, made him take over when my grandfather
retired. And every day that my father has run that business has been an agony to him. He swore he’d never make any of his children join the company. He’s just counting the days till he can retire and sell the place.”

Lluis was staring at the tabletop, shaking his head. Just then the waiter came by and put our desserts in front of us. When he left, I looked back at Lluis.

“Why doesn’t your father walk away right now?” I asked.

“Well,” said Lluis, “as you might imagine, because he hates it so much, he isn’t very good at it. It’s like a joke one of my customers told me: How do you make a small fortune in a bad economy?”

I shook my head.

“Start with a
large
one,” said Lluis. We both laughed. Then Lluis’s smile faded.

“The company isn’t worth much anymore, but my father slogs along each day, hoping he can rebuild it and retire a wealthy man. But at this point, I have more chance of riches than he does.”

We were quiet for a moment. Lluis picked a strawberry out of his fruit salad but then let it drop back into his bowl.

“So Julian gave you this talisman because you chose to do something you love?” I asked. It didn’t seem like a perfect fit: is doing what you love necessarily the same thing as doing “your best work”?

“No, I don’t think that’s exactly why I was given this particular talisman,” said Lluis. “I think Julian gave me this one because of a promise I made to myself that day on the sidewalk. I knew that my friends and family would question my decision. And I decided that I never wanted to feel apologetic about my work. I always wanted to feel proud of myself. And
the only way to do that would be to do the very best job I could.”

Lluis looked across at me and smiled.

“That young cabbie who almost hit us today—he doesn’t understand how to drive well. He thinks that to get your passengers where they are going as quickly as possible you have to speed, take foolish chances. He doesn’t realize that the fastest way to move between point A and point B is to know the city—to choose the best route and to avoid the problem areas. That’s what I do. There isn’t a street or alleyway I don’t know. But being the best cabbie I can be is more than just driving efficiently. When I am taking visitors around Barcelona, I can answer any question they put to me—what restaurant serves the best
fideuà,
what are the hours of the Museum of Contemporary Art, where is the finest place to shop for antiques? And if a customer gets off a plane at twelve at night, craving an American-style hotdog, I know where to take him.

“Julian gave the talisman to me because I believe with all my heart that a job is just a job only if you see it as just a job. Some may say I’m ‘just a taxi driver.’ But to me, I help visitors create memories that enrich their lives. I have the chance to show people some decency in a world where so many among us long for more human connections. I get to put smiles on the faces of my customers—and leave them better than I found them. In my mind, work is a vehicle for discovering more of our gifts, displaying more of our potential and being of use to other human beings.”

Our coffee had arrived now, and we both fell silent as we took our first sips. I don’t know what Lluis was thinking about, but my thoughts were with my dad, back in the classroom so many years ago.

Before we parted for the night, Lluis offered to share more of his genius. He would pick me up in the morning and give me a tour of his city. We agreed to meet at eight o’clock.

W
HEN THE ALARM
went off at six a.m. the next morning, I almost rolled over and went back to sleep. But I thought of that word I had written in my journal:
push-ups.
I lumbered out of bed and staggered to my luggage. I had packed a set of workout clothes. Whenever I traveled for business I did this—the shorts, T-shirt, gym shoes and socks invariably remaining in their state of readiness until I unpacked them again back at home. But this morning, instead of lying in bed and thinking up reasons not to go to the hotel gym, I got up and pulled on the clothes before my body had the opportunity to object. I was more than my limitations, I was learning. And it seemed to me that all the excuses I used to make were nothing more than lies that my fears had been trying to sell me. I shuffled into the bathroom, brushed my teeth, splashed some cold water on my face and then grabbed my hotel key and headed out the door. It wasn’t until twenty minutes later—jogging on the treadmill, my eyes firmly glued on a TV newscast I couldn’t understand—that my brain woke up and I became fully aware of what I was doing. The first thing my functioning brain did was congratulate myself.