Now it’s going to happen. This week Coelho will be sworn into the Brazilian Academy of Letters, an august association of writers, politicians, philosophers, clergy and economists who fancy themselves the guardians of Brazilian culture. For the past 105 years, the Academy has been the bastion of the Portuguese language and a fortress of refined taste and intellectual hauteur. The country’s elite have dreamed, plotted and often brawled for the chance to occupy one of the 40 velvet chairs in the Petit Trianon, the Academy’s mustard-colored neoclassical bunker in downtown Rio de Janeiro. Members, elected for life, are known as “immortals”–and accorded nearly royal clout. Only 225 luminaries have ever donned the pompous gold-embroidered frock and ostrich-plumed felt cap that comes with the position. “Many people think it’s a joke, that we dress up like parakeets and take 5 o’clock tea,” says Alberto da Costa e Silva, a diplomat and Academy president. “In fact, the Academy represents the true intellectual elite of the nation.”

So what is Coelho doing there? After all, he made his name–and a bundle, besides–turning out pleasant, bite-size tales of enlightenment, replete with conversations with angels and the like. Think Jack Kerouac, combined with Carlos Castaneda and a dollop of J.R.R. Tolkien thrown in. The critics have been far from kind, calling him a charlatan, copycat and literary featherweight. “Mysticism with Coca-Cola,” sniped one Brazilian intellectual who was passed over by the Academy. “The Academy always defended a literature of high esthetic quality,” says Silviano Santiago, a respected Brazilian author, though not an Academy member. “Paulo Coelho represents the mass market. This is a huge change.”

Yet Coelho is not as odd a fit as he may seem. The Academy’s first president, Machado de Assis, a superb novelist and a consummate pragmatist, was convinced that limiting membership to highbrow writers would condemn the institution to obscurity. “The Academy is a little like the Catholic Church,” says Joo Ubaldo Ribeiro, a novelist and Academy member. “It knows how to survive by reaching out to the right people and places.” Powerful television mogul Roberto Marinho is a member, as is Ivo Pitanguy, a famed plastic surgeon. In these soul-scouring times, Coelho’s soothing mysticism goes down well. He boasts millions of dedicated fans, including Shimon Peres and Madonna. “I think by admitting Coelho they mean to be modern,” says Santiago.

Still, getting elected is a challenge. A candidate must have a godfather inside the Academy, a palate for palace intrigue and a war chest for wining and dining voters, i.e., the other academicians. “Election to the Academy is more intricate than Florentine politics,” says Ribeiro. Most important: someone must die. As soon as a member passes away, the jockeying for the chair begins–sometimes, legend has it, right at the funeral. Coelho was on the beach in Monte Carlo, talking with filmmaker Sydney Pollack, when his mobile phone rang: Academy member Roberto Campos, a brilliant economist, had died. Coelho immediately began plotting his campaign. He drafted letters, burned up the phone lines, unleashed a blizzard of e-mails and sent crates of his books to each of the 39 academicians. “It was intense,” he says. In July, Coelho learned he’d won, edging out Helio Jaguaribe, a revered sociologist, 23 votes to 15. Clearly the judges had been swayed by the fact that he’s one of the most famous Latin Americans alive. “The Academy has lots of prestige,” says poet Ledo Ivo, a longtime Academician. “But Paulo will help spread our name around the world.”

Not everyone was pleased. “The Academy has never received as many protest letters,” says one Immortal, who asked not to be identified. Mainly they expressed concern that the institution was going low-brow. But Coelho seems unfazed. “The violence of the arrow dignifies the target,” he says, repeating another of his favorite sayings. Besides, the feather in the cap is his.