The Secret Letters of the Monk Who Sold His Ferrari Read Online Free PDF Page B

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.
     
    A HMET’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 Beikta. 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