The Secret Letters of the Monk Who Sold His Ferrari. Робин Шарма

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      “Yes,” he said.

      “How did you get this car?” I asked. “I mean … does it cost a lot of money?”

      “It sure does,” he said. “So if you want one of these yourself, Jonathan, you’re going to have to work really, really hard when you grow up.”

      I never forgot that.

      As I remember, Julian didn’t stick around long after dinner—Mom and Cousin Catherine seemed disappointed, maybe a little annoyed. Although I was only ten, I could imagine that Julian had much more exciting places to be. He was clearly living the kind of life that I wanted when I got older. I watched with envy as Julian’s fabulous sports car tore down the street.

      After years of saying nothing about the man, Mom had begun to invoke Julian’s name every time we got together. She had recently told me the Ferrari was long gone. Cousin Julian had, apparently, gone through some sort of life-changing experience. He’d quit his extremely lucrative job as a high-powered litigator, sold the Ferrari and embraced a “simple” existence. Mom said he had studied with a little-known group of monks who lived deep in the Himalayas and that he now often went around in a crimson robe. She said he was an utterly different man. I wasn’t sure why she seemed to think this was such a good thing.

      And she had been trying to get the two of us together. She had suggested that I make time to visit with him when I was in his city on business. But frankly, if I didn’t have enough time for Annisha or Adam, why would I take a day off to spend with a man I hardly knew? Besides, if he’d still been a phenomenally successful lawyer with a glamorous lifestyle and a flashy sports car, I might have seen the point. But why did I need to spend time with an unemployed old man with no Ferrari? There were plenty of guys like him hanging around in my local bar.

      “Mom,” I said, “what are you talking about? Why does Julian need to see me?”

      Mom didn’t have details. She said Julian needed to talk with me. He needed my help with something.

      “That’s nuts,” I said. “I haven’t seen Cousin Julian in years. I don’t know the guy. There has to be someone else who can help.”

      Mom didn’t say anything, but I thought I could hear her crying softly. The last couple of years since my dad died had been tough on her. “Mom,” I said. “Are you okay?”

      She sniffled a bit, but then started talking in a steely tone that I barely recognized.

      “Jonathan, if you love me, you’ll do this. You’ll do whatever Julian wants you to do.”

      “But what…” I didn’t get a chance to finish my question.

      “There will be a plane ticket waiting for you when you get home tonight.” She started another sentence, but her voice began to crack. “Jonathan, I need to go,” she said and then hung up.

      It was hard to concentrate for the rest of the afternoon. The phone call was so unlike my mother—her forcefulness and desperation unnerved me. And then there was the whole mystery of the thing. What on earth did Julian want me to do? I wondered about this life change of his. Had he gone completely off his rocker? Was I going to meet with some old coot ranting about government conspiracies? Some wild-haired fellow who shuffled down the street in his housecoat and slippers? (I knew that’s not what mom meant by “crimson robes,” but I couldn’t get that image out of my mind.) I was so preoccupied by these thoughts that I walked right past Juan’s office as I left for the day. It wasn’t until I entered the lobby that I realized what I had done. It felt like a bad omen.

      When I got back to my apartment, I almost forgot to check the mailbox. I struggled with the bent key for a few minutes, and then the little metal door flew open, spitting pizza flyers and insurance offers all over the floor. As I shoveled them up, my hand settled on a thick envelope. It was from my mother. I sighed, stuffed it in my pocket and headed up the stairs to my apartment.

      I opened the envelope while my frozen lasagna entrée spun around in the microwave. Inside was a short note from my mother explaining that Julian was temporarily living in Argentina, and a return airline ticket to Buenos Aires. Good lord, I thought. They want me to take a twelve-hour flight to meet up with a distant cousin for an hour or two? Over the weekend? Great. I would have to spend my entire weekend in a flying sardine tin and disappoint my son. That, or upset my mom even more than she was already disappointed.

      I ate my lukewarm lasagna in front of the TV, hoping a large tumbler of Scotch would mask the crumminess of my dinner and the misery of my mood.

      I put off phoning Annisha until I was sure Adam would be in bed. Annisha is a stickler for routine, so there was no guesswork there. When she answered the phone she sounded tired, but not unhappy. I braced myself for her mood to change when I told her about my possible weekend plans. But Annisha knew about it already.

      “I’ve talked with your mom, Jonathan,” she said. “You need to do this. Adam will understand.”

      So that was that.

      CHAPTER TWO

      THE TAXICAB HAD MOVED from the highway onto an extraordinarily wide boulevard. It looked like a typical city street, lined with trees on either side, a green island separating oncoming traffic, but it was at least ten lanes wide. I had never been to South America before and was surprised by how much Buenos Aires looked like a European city. An enormous obelisk, resembling the Washington Monument, split the scene in front of me, but the buildings and the streets reminded me a little of Paris.

      Julian had booked me on a red-eye on Friday night. I had surprised myself by falling asleep on the flight, waking just as the plane was setting down. And now, here it was morning, but in another hemisphere from the one I had fallen asleep in.

      The belle époque–style stone buildings, black cast-iron balconies and window boxes continued as we drove, but eventually we moved into an area that looked older, a bit tatty around the edges. There was graffiti on the walls, stucco chipping off the sides of buildings, dusty faded awnings. Although it was a cool fall day here, a number of windows were open, and I could see curtains flapping in the breeze. On one corner, musicians were gathered, playing for a small group of onlookers.

      The cab was slowing now, pulling up to a storefront. The sign painted on the window announced tango lessons. Music drifted out of the half-open front door. I double-checked the address Julian had given me. This dance studio appeared to be it. I showed the piece of paper to the cabbie to make sure we were in the right part of town, that this wasn’t some sort of mix-up. He nodded and then shrugged his shoulders. I paid and got out of the cab.

      Wow, I thought, peering through the half-open door. When Mom said that Julian had changed his life, she wasn’t kidding.

      The room was long but not deep. Its walls were painted a rich red, and glass chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Men and women, holding each other closely yet with a certain formality, stepped around the room in time with the pulsing music.

      As I watched, a tall, stylishly dressed man separated himself from his partner and threaded his way through the twirling dancers. When he got close to me, I could see he was smiling.

      “Jonathan,” СКАЧАТЬ