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

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

      Ahmet bought some dried apricots, dates and figs before we left and made our way to the enormous stone complex that housed the thousands of shops of the Grand Bazaar.

      The Spice Bazaar had dazzled my senses, stupefying me with its exotic aromas. I had been moving about utterly absorbed by my surroundings, not thinking at all about myself or my life. But here, in the Grand Bazaar, my mind kept jumping to the people I missed. As I walked through the huge, endless arched corridors, I СКАЧАТЬ