The Secret Letters of the Monk Who Sold His Ferrari

by Robin Sharma

  With the Jacuzzi jets pulsing against my body, fine wine and good food filling me with warmth, I soon lost interest in the movie. I used the remote to turn off the television and turn on the sound system. An hour later, I emerged from the tub relaxed, refreshed and marveling at my good fortune. I slipped into a plush cotton robe. As music drifted through the suite, I retrieved my journal and headed into the living room. I stretched out on the deep, soft sectional sofa and opened the journal to a fresh page. What a great way to live, I wrote. I could get used to this! Then I snapped the book shut.

  YU FENG AND THE DRIVER picked me up in the Bentley, this time whisking me to Mr. Gao’s glittering office tower. After the driver dropped us off, Yu Feng led me through a glass-and fountain-filled lobby, up to the penthouse office.

  Yu Feng pushed through the glass doors, and a lovely young woman sitting at reception immediately stood up behind the desk.

  “Mr. Yu, Mr. Landry,” she said. “I am so sorry. Mr. Gao was certain the meeting would be over by six, but they are still here. I’ve let Mr. Gao know you have arrived.”

  Just then a door down the hallway burst open and men began filing out. The sound of loud voices and laughter engulfed them like a wave. As they began to spill into the lobby area, I noticed a familiar face. I thought I was seeing things. And then the voice.

  “Mr. Gao, I’m glad you agree with us. I mean, this really is one of the best scripts that’s ever been sent to me.” It was an actor—a movie star. I’d seen him in dozens of thrillers, the occasional romantic comedy. And he was walking toward me. Beside him was another man I thought I recognized. I couldn’t come up with a name, but I had seen him interviewed, or accepting an award or something. A director, maybe; or perhaps a famous producer. And beside them, a tall Asian man who was staring directly at me. He put his hand on the shoulder of the actor, and said something quietly to him. Then he parted from the group and walked over to me.

  “Jonathan Landry,” the man said, warmly extending his hand. “Gao Li. So sorry to have made you wait. Let me introduce you to some new business partners of mine.”

  It turned out that Gao Li was a venture capitalist. One of his most recent investments was in a new Hollywood production company started by a group that included the actor and the other man—a director, I learned. They had been signing the final papers in that day’s meeting.

  “You’re in for a real treat,” the actor said to me. He was smiling and thumping Mr. Gao on the back.

  People say that when you meet famous people, they are smaller than you’d expect. But this guy was every bit as tall and muscled as he looked on the big screen. His clothes were casual, but they didn’t look like anything I owned. I wondered if that was what designer clothes looked like, if truly expensive shirts and jeans just had a certain flash to them. Sunglasses were perched on his forehead. It looked as if they had been there all day, clinging to his temples, ready to slide down over his eyes in case he needed to go incognito in a hurry.

  “Get Mr. Gao to take you to his yacht,” the actor was saying to me. He gestured toward Gao Li. “What a party we had there last night. Crazy. Seriously, Mr. Gao, she is one beautiful boat. And you throw one hell of a bash. Thanks. Thanks for everything.” As Gao Li and the actor shook hands, a serious-looking young man leaned toward Mr. Gao, speaking quietly.

  Gao Li then said, “Gentlemen, the helicopter is here. Shall we head up?” Then he turned to me.

  “Jonathan, would you like to join me to see my friends off?”

  I had never before been to a helipad. We headed through a door on the other side of the penthouse and took an elevator just one floor up. The doors opened onto the wide, flat roof. There, some distance away, was a helicopter, its blades spinning. It was a surreal feeling—to stand on top of a building, over a hundred stories off the ground, the air rushing above our heads, a strangely open sky stretching into the distance. The rooftops of other skyscrapers looked like floating platforms dotting the concrete canyon that surrounded us.

  The actor, the director and another couple of men bent over and started a slow run to the helicopter. They looked as if they did this sort of thing every day. Once they climbed on board and settled themselves, the chopper began to lift away slowly from the building. Gao Li and I waved. I could see the actor at the window waving back. Then Mr. Gao and I headed down to the office.

  “I am sorry that I couldn’t send the helicopter to bring you from the airport, but I’m afraid we needed to do another safety check for this flight today, so the timing did not work.”

  I didn’t know what to say. It hadn’t occurred to me that I might have the benefit of this sort of transportation.

  As we rode the elevator and made our way to Mr. Gao’s office, my thoughts raced. Gao Li’s life was rewriting all my standards of luxury. I had never ridden in a Bentley before, but it was now something I might long for. And a driver. Then there was the suite at the hotel, this swanky office, the helicopter. And the actor. How glamorous was that? It all reminded me of the grand plan I had formulated after high school.

  LIKE SO MANY KIDS, I found high school and the teen years something of a trial. It wasn’t because I was unpopular, or struggled in school, or was plagued by some deep insecurity. Instead, my adolescent self existed in a relentless state of dissatisfaction. While I knew there were plenty of kids who had things worse than I did, all I could really see were those who seemed to have it better. When spring break or the summer holidays came around, I made a mental list of the kids who were setting off on fabulous holidays—the Caribbean or ski trips in March, a cottage or Europe in July. I noticed who had the best bike, the newest ice skates, the most spending money. I made note of the houses they lived in and the cars their parents drove. And the kids who had their own cars—their good fortune was like a flashing neon sign above a shop I couldn’t enter. I decided during those covetous years that I wasn’t going to accept my parents’ life of coupon-cutting, second-hand vehicles and low-rent vacations. I was going to make big money when I finished college. And I was going to live in style.

  Of course, there’s nothing like a little reality to make you recalibrate your expectations. But while I hadn’t managed to buy a Bentley, I had acquired a house considerably bigger than the one I grew up in, and I had been working my way up the corporate ladder toward a more luxurious life. During this trip for Julian, however, I had been loosening my grip on that goal. I was beginning to question some of my priorities and to look at the “good life” in a whole new light. This visit was reminding me of why I had set myself those targets in the first place. Gao Li’s life looked pretty great. There was just no getting around it. Unlike Julian, I had no Ferrari to sell. But was I ready to sell my dream of a Ferrari?

  Gao Li led me into his office. It was, of course, an enormous corner suite with wraparound windows. Antique lacquered furniture punctuated the room. In one corner was what appeared to be a silk brocade couch and chairs; in another, an extravagant ebony desk. A bottle of champagne sat in an ice bucket on the coffee table in front of us.

  “Left over from the meeting,” Gao Li said, looking at it. “Would you care for a glass or shall we head to my home for a drink before dinner?”

  As much as I would have liked to linger in that elegant place, sipping champagne and gazing at the Shanghai skyline, I was even more curious to see where—and how—Gao Li lived.

  “I’d be happy to head out,” I said.

  “Very good,” Gao Li replied. “I am a little anxious to get home myself. I’ve been busy the last few days entertaining the production company people, and I am missing my home and my wife and daughter.”

  “Ah yes, I heard about the yacht,” I said.

  “Yes, I hope you don’t mind that I can’t take you on a ride this trip,” said Gao Li. “Julian tells me your time is limited, and the crew is still cleaning up from last night.”

  “No worries,” I said, perhaps with too much insistence. I was a little disappointed not to see a trophy that had im
pressed a Hollywood giant who no doubt had been on his share of good-sized yachts.

  Gao Li walked over to his desk and pressed a button on his phone.

  “Yang Jing-we,” he said into the speaker, “can you have Sung Hao bring my car around? Jonathan and I are ready to leave.” Then he turned to me.

  “I brought my own car this morning since I wanted to keep the company car and driver free to take you around today.”

  As we headed down the elevator to the lobby, I found myself wondering what kind of car a fellow like Gao Li would choose. Would he go for a sedan like a Mercedes, or would he have a sportier vehicle? Maybe a Maserati or a Porsche? Perhaps a Lamborghini. Or even a Ferrari.

  As we pushed out the glass lobby doors I scanned the cars lined up along the sidewalk. There was a Lexus, an Alfa Romeo, a BMW and an Aston Martin. My money was on the Aston Martin. I almost began walking in that direction when I heard Gao Li say, “Over here, Jonathan.” He was walking in the opposite direction, toward a man in a livery uniform who was holding a set of keys. The man was standing beside a Volvo station wagon.

  “Thank you, Sung Hao,” Gao Li said, taking the keys and walking around to the driver’s side of the Volvo.

  I realized that I had been standing on the sidewalk, watching Gao Li, my mouth slightly open, my feet frozen in place. I snapped my jaw closed and stepped quickly toward the passenger side. I opened the door and was about to sit down, but a magazine was on the seat.

  “Sorry about that,” said Gao Li, picking up the magazine and tossing it in the backseat. “My daughter’s.”

  I was so surprised by the car that I didn’t say anything as Gao Li pulled out into traffic. This was, after all, the kind of car my neighbors drove, the type that lined the parking lot at Adam’s soccer games. There was nothing wrong with it, but it wasn’t the sort of vehicle that I thought a man with Mr. Gao’s obvious resources would drive.

  We were moving on and off major roads, through seas of high-rise offices and apartment buildings. At every turn, I expected a break, a move into low-rise suburbia or even a stretch of green space, but the line of dense buildings went on and on and on. Gao Li and I chatted amiably. He told me about some of his big ventures, including the production company and a new enterprise he was funding in Brazil. I told him about my work in the auto industry. Eventually I asked how he knew Julian.

  “We met in court. While he was suing me,” Gao Li said with a chuckle. “Actually, his client was suing me,” Mr. Gao continued. “Unsuccessfully, I might add.”

  “I thought Julian never lost,” I said. I had heard the stories.

  “His client didn’t have a case, but for Julian that usually didn’t matter. I was just lucky that the suit was at the end of Julian’s legal career—when he wasn’t exactly at the top of his game.”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “He got in touch with you again after his return from the Himalayas.”

  “You are not mistaken,” said Gao Li, who was slowing down before pulling into a rare parking space along the side of the street.

  “Please excuse me,” said Gao Li. “I just want to stop in at the coffee shop right there. I’ll only be a minute.”

  I watched as Gao Li got out of the car, ran down the sidewalk, and disappeared into a small, brightly lit café. It was now at least eight in the evening, and the place looked packed. I could see dozens of people clustered tightly around small tables, stretching back into the narrow shop.

  As he promised, Gao Li came out just a minute later. When he got into the car, he looked pleased.

  “Another one of my investments,” he said. “Mr. Chang is from my hometown. He started here in Shanghai with a little cart in the corridor of a shopping mall. I paid for half the cart. And now his café is one of the most popular spots in this part of the city. We are talking about opening a second location.”

  “It seems to be doing pretty well,” I said.

  “Well, certainly in the evenings it is. That’s when people go out for coffee here—afternoons and evenings. Coffee isn’t a morning thing in China yet. But Chang Ning is working on that. He has a few morning regulars. And he’s trying to reach out to the older crowd. Right now, his clients are mostly young. Some business-people, but most people my age still see coffee as a Western fad.”

  Gao Li turned his attention to the road, while I watched the little shop disappear behind us in the rearview mirror. It seemed like an awfully small enterprise for a man who was playing at Gao Li’s level.

  Another twenty minutes passed before we were turning off the busy street into an underground parking garage. The change in direction had startled me. We were surrounded by nondescript high-rise apartment buildings. I hadn’t seen anything that looked liked luxury condos or a wealthy urban enclave.

  Gao Li pulled into a parking spot. The cars on either side of him were modest. Gao Li got out and opened the back door to retrieve the magazine and his briefcase. I followed him as he headed to a bank of elevators.

  MR. GAO’S APARTMENT, like the car, was in striking contrast to everything I had seen earlier in the day. It was considerably bigger than my apartment to be sure, and the furnishings were certainly elegant and tasteful. It was on the fiftieth floor, so the view of the Shanghai skyline at night was breathtaking. But everything else about the place was simple. His wife, Gao Ling, a pretty middle-aged woman, was dressed in dark jeans and a white shirt—something Annisha might wear—with bright turquoise jewelry. There were no diamonds weighing down her fingers or dripping from her ears.

  Their daughter, Gao Mei, was out with friends, so it was just the three of us for dinner. Mr. Gao and I had a glass of wine, while Mrs. Gao brought various things to the table.

  “May I help?” I asked, moving into the dining room.

  “No, no,” said Gao Ling. “Thank you.”

  The table was filling with covered dishes. The smell was heavenly.

  “Did you cook all this yourself?” I asked in amazement.

  Mr. Gao started to speak in Mandarin to his wife. My host was so fluent in English that it hadn’t occurred to me that Gao Ling might not be as well.

  “My wife likes to cook,” said Gao Li. “If we have a big party, we will hire caterers, but when it is just the three of us, or a few friends for dinner, she prefers to prepare everything. Sometimes she even lets me help.” Mr. Gao laughed, and Gao Ling shot him a questioning look. He repeated his comment in Mandarin, and she smiled.

  I ATE FAR MORE than I should have. When the meal was done, Gao Li and I helped clear the table and then he suggested that we drink our tea in his study.

  “I have something to give you,” he said, leading the way.

  We moved into a small room lined with bookshelves. A desk was moved up against the window, the seat facing out toward the brightly lit city. Two deep upholstered chairs and a round coffee table filled the rest of the space.

  I sat in one of the chairs while Gao Li went to the desk. He opened a drawer and pulled out something. When he turned back toward me he was holding a small, red, silk-covered box.

  “Julian’s talisman,” he said proudly, placing the box carefully in my hand.

  I lifted the lid and peered inside. The box held a small cylindrical shell—about two inches long and half an inch wide. I tipped it out of the box into my hand. A plain, ordinary sea-shell. It really didn’t look like an amulet or any kind of special treasure. A small piece of folded paper was wedged into the bottom of the box. I worked it out and unfolded it.

  The note read:

  Life’s simplest pleasures are life’s greatest joys.

  Most people don’t discover what’s most important in life until they are too old to do anything about it. They spend many of their best years pursuing things that matter little in the end. While society invites us to fill our lives with material objects, the best part of us knows that the more basic pleasures are the ones that enrich and sustain us. No matter how easy or hard our current conditions, we all have a wealth of simple blessings aro
und us—waiting to be counted. As we do, our happiness grows. Our gratitude expands. And each day becomes a breathtaking gift.

  I looked up at Gao Li. All the trappings of wealth I had seen this afternoon, and then the simple apartment, the unassuming car.

  “I imagine that you have more to say about this,” I said, holding up the shell.

  “Yes, I have some thoughts about this talisman and Julian’s note. But first, I think you have some questions for me.”

  I cocked my head. I wasn’t sure what Gao Li was getting at.

  “I noticed your expression when you saw my car and the apartment. And I think you may be wondering about that coffee shop, too. You were just too polite to ask. But don’t worry about offending me. Ask your questions.”

  I was clearly not fooling Mr. Gao—he already knew what perplexed me. But he wanted me to put it into words, so I would have to try.

  “It’s just the yacht, the Bentley, the helicopter. I mean, it looks like your business is doing extremely well, but…” Now I was in trouble. I couldn’t think of any good way to put this. “I’m not trying to be rude, but your car, your apartment. I mean they’re nice, they’re perfectly nice, but…”

  “But they are not the car and the home of a truly wealthy man,” said Gao Li, smiling. “You are wondering if I am trying to create the illusion of success for my business. You are wondering if I am struggling financially.”

  I didn’t say anything. This was awkward.

  “No, Jonathan. I am not struggling. The signs of wealth you saw today are all very real. I am an extremely rich man. But my car, my home, it all goes back to that little piece of paper you are holding.” I looked down at Julian’s note.

  “The Volvo is a simple pleasure?” I asked.

  Gao Li laughed. “Maybe for someone else, but I don’t really care about cars,” said Mr. Gao. “No,” he continued, “I guess the connection takes a bit of explaining. You see, Jonathan, I was not born into wealth. My family wasn’t even middle-class. Not by North American standards, in any case. My father and mother both worked in a garment factory in Xintang. The tiny apartment we lived in would make this one look like a mansion.”