The Brazilian Palace

THE LITTLE FARM IN JURA

Don’t ask me how it happened, but this morning, very early, I ended up in a remote farm in the middle of the countryside, miles away from anywhere (in fact I was giving someone a lift)!

Just as I was about to head home again “something” (Him again, I’m sure of it) prompted me to go inside.

In the dark corridor I came face to face with a poor farmer with a white beard who hardly seemed at all surprised to see me there…

We got ready to exchange the usual small talk like:

“Good morning, what awful weather we’re getting”, etc.

I looked deep into his eyes and found myself spurting out, like a fax machine (the craziest ideas sometimes pop into my head, I have to admit):

“Whatever the path we are on, what really matters is knowing that:

The Lord is my light and my salvation,

Whom shall I fear?

The Lord is the stronghold of my life,

Of whom shall I be afraid? (Psalm 27:1)”

Tears well up in the old man’s eyes, he is visibly moved, but he manages to say,

“Yes of course, that’s true … thank you for those words … I lost my wife today, but these words have given me back my courage and my joy … thank you!”

He holds me in his arms.

I feel a little shaken; who would have thought that out in a forsaken and desolate place like this you could come across such intense feelings?

I go back to “civilization”.

THE BRAZILIAN PALACE

That same day I am invited to a Brazilian VIP soirée, a sort of Oscars ceremony in Babylon, … I mean in Zurich.

When I say that I am invited I’m exaggerating slightly… Let’s say rather that it was Lucia, a Brazilian friend who was well known in these celebrity circles, who managed to arrange for me to be there …

She used to be a famous strip-tease artist.

Then she met Jesus Christ and left that scene, but she kept in touch with some of her contacts there, which meant that she ended up with an extra ticket … in a nutshell.

A colleague at work lent me a suit and the village librarian found some shoes in her attic which she thought I could use, as the sole was coming off one of my own shoes. (I probably looked like  a "Muppets show” puppet!)

I set off in the car that a mechanic lent me (the number plates were stuck on with cello-tape, and at 100 kpm it felt as if it was going to blow up!)

Frankly I have no idea what I’ll do at this “soirée” … but on the way Lucia and I pray, as if the car were on fire, that the Lord will open doors for my cartoons in Brazil!

It’s me who’s driving, and nevertheless we arrive in one piece in the parking of the huge hotel (a cynic would no doubt quip that it’s proof of God’s existence). Once we’ve parked the car, Lucia sighs with relief, her hands trembling as if her whole life has just passed in front of her eyes …

She is clearly not used to my driving style (it’s not that I drive fast, far from it, it’s just that I tend to get distracted … Read my cartoon “Marcel” and you’ll see what I mean …)

Fireworks

The people in the parking lift are dressed for the Cannes Festival. The lift muzak fails to relieve the latent nervousness concentrated in that confined space. The floor numbers succeed one another like a count-down, the door opens and:

Brazil! (pronounced “Brrrrâzeoul!”)

Several almost naked girls (“dressed” with 2 or 3 bird feathers that had apparently fallen into a pot of fluorescent paint) welcome us ceremoniously. Their ravishing smiles are so broad that they look as if they are inviting us to count their teeth … (But I guess that’s not the real reason …)

A huge reception, tables with the names of the guests, Brazilian music, dancers who seem to have stepped out of a body-building magazine weaving in and out among us and the other 400 guests … Wow! What a sight!

I’m sitting next to some political celebrities and I witness to them about my life with Jesus (I can’t hold myself back!). I give some of my comics to some of the “giants” around me…

At one point I find myself standing almost face to face with a singing star. I notice that as she approaches everyone seems to melt in her presence, showering her with praise and bowing and scraping in front of her … I feel like a bit of an idiot ‘cos I feel absolutely nothing … (I guess it might be ‘cos I don’t know her from Adam).

A minister seated next to me is explaining how, even for short distances, it’s much more practical to take a plane, and I reply, without batting an eyelid:

“How come I never thought of that?”

(I think about “my” car, probably still giving off smoke, and how ridiculous it must look among all those Mercedes …)

The soirée comes to an end and we head home. This time it’s Lucia who drives. (She insisted!)

It had been an evening full of glamour, and stars, and promises, and an impression of … superficiality.

(For all its glitter, gold doesn’t make anyone rich …)

I think again about the poor farmer I had met that morning; despite his poverty, and the desert he’s crossing right now, he is rich because God is in his life.

Late that night I make my way back to my own little village in the middle of nowhere, my own little home, my little family …I look at them as they sleep and I say to myself,

“I love them so much …”