While, as William Empson has demonstrated, a properly conceived and controlled ambiguity can add richness, complexity and depth to any literary work, Jorge Amado's A Morte e a Morte de Quincas Berro Dágua offers us a singular example of just how integral a role it can play in the structuring of an entire novel. Arguably Amado's finest overall technical achievement, the tale of the materially poor but spiritually rich vagabond, Quincas Berro Dágua, is a work all too often overlooked by scholars concerned with Amado's skill as a novelist. Part of the reason it has received relatively little critical attention is that it has been overshadowed by several of Amado's other, better known works, such as Gabriela, Cravo e Canela, Dona Flor e seus dois Maridos and Tenda dos Milagres. A related problem is that the story of Quincas and his companions deals with many of the same social types that we have grown accustomed to seeing, but in expanded versions, in other of the author's works. And, finally, this spare 1961 work simply does not have the same breadth and scope as do many of Amado's other novels, especially those coming from his post-1958 period. Given all these reservations, then, how is it that A Morte e a Morte de Quincas Berro Dágua may be said to constitute Amado's finest effort as a novelist? The answer to this question, which forms the basis of this essay, centers squarely on the author's skill in weaving a fundamental ambiguity concerning what "really happens" in the story into the actual structuring of the story itself. The result is a tightly written, highly cohesive tale composed of causally related events which, under the author's careful control, open themselves up to different interpretations.

When we evaluate the quality of a piece of fiction, we must, of necessity, come to grips with the issue of technique: how does the author select, organize and shape his material so as to achieve the desired effect? What aesthetic norms guide him in the creation of his fictive world? In the case of Jorge Amado, an author more widely praised for his vitality as a teller of tales than as a craftsman of the novel form, this crucial critical issue deserves more attention than it has so far received. And of all the many novels he has written, A Morte e a Morte de Quincas Berro Dágua stands out as the prime example of how well Amado has mastered the technical demands of not only the oral tradition, but those of the well-crafted novel as well. This work, a synthesis of both these modes of expression, is full of ribald and charming characters from Bahia's lower classes, yet it is also a carefully composed, rigorously ordered and sharply focused work of art, one that proves just how thoroughly Amado appreciates the importance of structure in the novel.

Closely related to the issue of technique is the question of structure in narrative, the order in which the events depicted are placed. And while this ordering is an undeniably important part of the structuring of A Morte, there is an additional element at work here as well, one which, more than anything else, gives this tale its unusual piquancy and charm. I refer to Amado's steady balancing of the plausible with the implausible, of events seemingly "real" in nature with those that, if taken in their literal context, seem wholly supernatural in nature. As suggested, for example, in the title itself, Quincas Berro Dágua, the protagonist, "dies" at least twice in this story: the first time, restively, in body, and, the second time, peacefully, in spirit. In the mundane, dully rational world of everyday human existence, we do not often get to expire as often as our hero here does, but then, happily, Quincas Berro Dágua is not an ordinary homo sapiens. And although much of the tale's structural tightness derives directly from the author's unwavering focus on Quincas, and on the fulfillment of a certain vow he makes, its uniqueness, indeed, its brilliance, lies in Amado's ability to counterbalance in an unobtrusive fashion events that are mimetically rendered with those that are utterly fantastic in nature. Also playing a vital role in this structural legerdemain is Amado's considerable talent for drawing the reader into the story and eliciting from him a sympathetic response concerning the protagonist's fate. This, of course, merely underscores Amado's repeatedly proven excellence as a storyteller, but in addition it illustrates how effectively he can control the sundry components of the novel as art form.

In terms of its internal organization, the novel's structural ambiguity, which, in its role as mediator between fact and fancy, provides the outstanding technical feature of the work, shows three distinct but closely interlocking levels of development: part one begins with the provocative epigram that opens the narrative and runs through chapter VIII. The narrative voice, which is never identified, quickly sets the stage for the events that will follow. It also establishes a deferentially self-conscious tone and, through it, suggests to the reader continuously that, in this story, nothing is impossible, that here, as in the human experience, it is difficult, if not impossible, to say with absolute certainty what is true and what is not; the second section, in which the turning point of the action appears, comprises chapters IX and X. The narrative voice here increasingly gives way to the characters themselves, allowing them, by means of their own words and actions, to carry the story to the reader. In these chapters, the signal feature, structurally speaking, is the delicate though omnipresent tension that Amado establishes between what really happened and what, given the circumstances, might have happened; finally, in the third section, made up of chapters XI and XII, we find the resolution of the basic conflict and a concluding statement that re-connects us with the uncertainty expressed in the introduction to part one. Here, the narrative voice judiciously re-enters the story in an active, participatory way, giving counsel to the reader and calling his attention to the "magical" qualities of the events recounted. This final, short section also carries the mixing of verisimilitude and fantasy to its zenith and, as noted earlier, links the enigmatic conclusion of the tale to the epigramatic statement about the essential mysteriousness of life that opens the book. Thus, on one level the novel exemplifies the classical pattern of plot development in the realistic novel: a rising action, which leads to a decisive moment, suddenly unravels itself in a logical denouement. But this is not exactly a "realistic" novel, at least not in terms of the most salient feature of its structuring. For in addition to the acknowledged realism of its style, which, as always with Jorge Amado, is earthy and demotic, A Morte e a Morte de Quincas Berro Dágua is "magically realistic" in much the same way as is Gabriel García Márquez's Cien años de soledad. In the story of Quincas Berro Dágua, as in the story of the Buendía family, the "magic" of the events described springs from and is a rational, entirely reasonable extension of the three-dimensional world of "normal" human existence. The "reality" of these works is thus rooted in two different levels of existence—the quotidian and the ideal.

By establishing this charming duality at the outset, the first part of the novel's plot structure is the longest because through it Amado's narrator must tell us what we need to know about the relationship between his protagonist's life (or lives) and death (or deaths). He does this immediately by citing, in a prefatory statement to the first chapter, what was allegedly one of Quincas' final utterances: "'Cada qual cuide de seu entêrro, impossível não há.' (Frase derradeira de Quincas Berro Dágua, segundo Quitéria que estava ao seu lado)."

The real meaning of these words, which imply that, in reading this narrative, we will not always be able to distinguish "fact" from "fiction," merges with what appears to be the unequivocable truth of a certain bit of evidence—the testimony of an eye-witness. By proceeding in this fashion, Amado deliberately blurs the distinction between "truth" and "falsity" in his story and, in so doing, immediately creates an aura of beguiling ambiguity that will be meticulously nurtured throughout the remainder of the work. Amado reinforces this basic, structurally based uncertainty by having his narrative voice then declare to the reader, as if in a disclaimer of responsibility for knowing "the truth" about "what really happened": "Até hoje permanece certa confusão em tôrno da morte de Quincas Berro Dágua. Dúvidas por explicar, detalhes absurdos, contradições no depoimento das testemunhas, lacunas diversas. Não há clareza sôbre hora, local e frase derradeira."

The author then calls upon his narrator to make a statement that, in one sense, is in perfect accord with his earlier statement but which questions, indirectly, the efficacy of being a reader who is overly accustomed to tales in which the "facts" are presented in a no-nonsense fashion. We read:

Tantas testemunhas idôneas, entre as quais Mestre Manuel e Quitéria de Olho Arregalado, mulher de uma só palavra, e, apesar disso, há quem negue todâ e qualquer autenticidade não só à admirada frase mas a todos os acontecimentos daquela noite memorável, quando, em hora duvidosa e em condiçoes discutiveis. Quincas Berro Dágua mergulhou no mar da Bahia e viajou para sempre, para nunca mais voltar. Assim é o mundo povoadodi de céticos e negativistas, amarrados, como bois na canga, à ordem e à lei, aos procedimentos habituais, ao papel selado.

Looking ahead to the rest of what he will be telling us, the narrative voice continues to entwine the factual with the not so factual, and to do so in a way that enables him increasingly to enhance the now firmly established ambiguity surrounding the events with which he is concerned. As he puts it, at one point: "… os acontecimentos posteriores—a partir do atestado de óbito até seu mergulho no mar—uma farsa montada por êle com o intuito de mais uma vez atazanar a vida dos parentes, desgostarlhes a existência, mergulhandoos na vergonha e nas murmuraçoes da rua."

These final words demonstrate, in particular, how careful Amado is to construct sentences and verb tenses which clearly indicate that Quincas actually did things even after he had "died." By utilizing this practice consistently, Amado builds into the textual core of the work phrases which, grammatically speaking, are unambiguous in terms of the actions they describe, but which, given the nature of the story, are quite ambiguous with respect to the relationships and situations they create. As with most technically accomplished writers, Amado is acutely aware that language does considerably more in literary art than merely communicate some arbitrary, conventional set of meanings. He is sensitive to the fact that words, especially as employed in literature, are arranged in such a way as to suggest the possibility of several meanings, all of which are at least potentially applicable to a given set of circumstances. This quality, the polysemy of language, is what I. A. Richards had in mind when he spoke of the "resourcefulness of language," its unique capacity to admit of several possible meanings, or interpretations, at one time, and it is precisely this aspect of language, or, rather, of the interplay between language, meaning and reality, that Amado exploits so successfully in this novel.

One important moment in the process by which he achieves this end occurs in chapter II, when Amado introduces what becomes a key leitmotif for the remainder of the tale, Quincas' real or imagined post-mortem smirk. The ambiguity involved here straddles the gap between the credible and the incredible because in each case, "what happens" can be quite reasonably explained in diverse ways, each of which has its own special appeal. In its initial appearance, for example, the smirk can be taken: as the rictus of death; as one of the peculiar ways Vanda, Quincas' conniving daughter, sees it; or as "proof" that Amado has abruptly entered a purely fantastic but entirely appropriate (and therefore acceptable) element into the text. Considering the nature of the story he tells here, this latter gambit would not involve, as one might well suppose, the insertion of an awkward Deus ex Machina into the story since the basic principle of uncertainty as to what took place that "magic" night had already been established by the narrative voice in an earlier section. Even Vanda's reaction to Quincas' smirk, which functions as a critical point of reference for the reader, is structured so that the essential plausibility of each of these three distinctive interpretations remains intact. This same issue comes to a head in chapter VI, when Quincas, now cleaned up by his petty, crass and invidious kin, is dressed in conformity with his erstwhile bourgeois role as Joaquim Soares da Cunha, a name and an existence that he had categorically rejected years earlier in favor of becoming the bohemian Quincas Berro Dágua. In this scene, which expands upon the possible interpretations inherent in the earlier one, Quincas seems not only to smirk at the vindictive Vanda, who is here alone with the "corpse," but to speak to her as well, indeed, to insult her, to antagonize her even as she and the rest of Quincas' image conscious family consign him to a cold grave. We read:

Pousou os olhos no rosto barbeado. E levou um choque, o primeiro. Viu o sorriso. Sorriso cínico, imoral, de quem se divertia. O sorriso não havia mudado, contra especialistas da funeraria…. Quincas ria daquilo tudo, um riso que se ia ampliando, alargando, que aos poucos ressoava na pocilga imunda. Ria com os lábios e com os olhos, olhos a fitarem o monte da roupa suja e remendada, esquecida num canto pelos homens da funerária. O sorriso de Quincas Berro Dágua. E Vanda ouviu, as sílabas destacadas com nitidez insultante, no silêncio fúnebre:—Jararaca!

At this point, the narrative adopts Vanda's point of view, with the result being that the reader, like Vanda, now feels strongly that Quincas is not dead at all, that he is alive and bent on extracting a final revenge on his unfaithful, undeserving family. The appeal of this interpretation derives from the fact that Vanda, along with the reader, knows full well of what she has been guilty, that, during his lifetime, she had let her father down and sided with her shrewish mother against him. Now she lives in shame, mortified at what her father, assuming the identity of the lowly but honorable Quincas Berro Dágua, had chosen to become.

The supernatural quality of this crucial scene, however appropriate it may be to the tone of the story, is held in check by two "realistic" factors, the stifling heat of the room (Vanda had shut the window so the cool evening sea breeze would not come in and blow out the candles) and the heavy perfume the undertakers had poured so copiously on the body to mask any trace of an unpleasant odor. Even though the text clearly indicates that Quincas did smirk at Vanda, did insult her and that she responded in a markedly unflustered way to it, another, more "rational" view of things would argue that none of this really happened, that the heat and the perfume made Vanda, who was already suffering from exhaustion and emotional trauma due to the "death" of her father, momentarily lose control of her senses; due to the stress of the situation and to the condition of the room, which Amado takes pains to describe in detail, Vanda just imagines Quincas' "recovery." This possible but rather pedestrian interpretation is given additional credence by the sudden appearance of Aunt Marocas, who says to Vanda, "Você está abatida, menina. Também com o calor que faz nesse cubículo…." But immediately, to restore the proper degree of ambiguity, Amado's narrator interrupts to tell us:

Ampliou-se o sorriso canalha de Quincas ao enxegar o vulto monumental da irmã. Vanda quis tapar os ouvidos, sabia, por experiência anterior, com que palavras êle amava definir Marocas, mas que adiantam ãos sôbre as orelhas para conter voz de morto? Ouviu:—Saco de peidos! Marocas, mais descansada da subida em olhar sequer o cadaver, escancarou a janela.

The appearance of Tia Marocas here is important structurally because it represents a new, objective view of the unsure string of events that connect Quincas, Vanda and the reader. As we see in the passage just quoted, Vanda, in putting her hands over her ears so as not to "hear" the epithet she knows Quincas will hurl at the corpulent Marocas, seems fully to expect not only that Quincas will speak but that Marocas, too, will hear the outrageous things he says. If this were to happen, however, the scales would tip too much toward a clear-cut explanation of what is really taking place in this scene, and Amado, bent on maintaining his structural balance between "fact" and "fantasy," will not permit this to happen. The result is that Marocas is, or seems to be oblivious not only to the sly grin Quincas may or may not have on his face, but to the words he may or may not have said. The reasons for this obliviousness on her part, however, introduce an additionally possible interpretation, namely, that, like Vanda, Tia Marocas is not in the least surprised at Quincas' cantankerous behavior and so she does not react to it. But this view seems less likely than the other two possibilities noted, that Quincas actually has returned from the dead, or that the entire scene is only a figment of Vanda's overwrought imagination. In either case, the main point is that Amado, completely in control not only of what he wants to say but, more importantly, of how he wants to say it, preserves the central ambiguity of the action by balancing contrastive but equally "appropriate" explanations of what is transpiring.

Coming hard on the heels of this pivotal scene in the first movement of the story is the climactic moment in chapter X, the point at which Quincas' four cronies, Cabo Martim, Curió, Pé-de-Vento and Negro Pastinha, come to pay their last respects to their old friend. This section of the novel, lyrical in its poignancy and gentle humor, represents the high point of Amado's melding of fact and fantasy into a seamless web of probability and possibility. And just as in the first movement of the novel, where the primary interpretational question centered on the condition of the room (as opposed to the possibility that Quincas had actually become revivified), here the pivotal feature involves the introduction of alcohol into the action. This is important because, like the hot, stuffy room, the alcohol can be said to have addled the brains of Quincas' four friends, thereby calling into question the issue of their reliability as witnesses to all that took place that "magic evening." Martim, Curió, Pé-de-Vento and Negro Pastinha all use the third-person to speak about Quincas as if he were dead and gone, but they also, at times, speak directly to him, using the familiar second-person form of address. In these cases, the text itself implies that Quincas is, in fact, alive and well, that he is not dead and that his friends are conversing with him as if things were as they had always been. The narrator, himself noting the role alcohol might have played in regard to the friend's perspicacity in relating the events of that night, declares:

… os quatro amigos mais íntimos de Quincas Berro Dágua … desciam a Ladeira do Tabuão em caminho do quarto do morto. Deve-se dizer, a bem da verdade, que não estavam êles ainda bêbedos. Haviam tomado seus tragos, sem dúvida … mas o vermelho dos olhos era devido às lágrimas derramadas, à dor sem medidas,….

Then, while pretending to tell the complete truth and clarify matters, the narrator actually injects a further element of uncertainty into the group's experience with Quincas that night: "Quanto à garrafa que o Cabo Martim teria escondida sob a camisa, nada ficou jamais provado." Moreover, references to Quincas' rascally conduct in regard to Vanda occur steadily in the text right up to the arrival of the four comrades in the room where, we are led to believe, Quincas is anxiously awaiting them:

Vanda lançava um olhar de desprêzo e reproche ao pai. Mesmo depois de morto, êle preferia a sociedade daqueles maltrapilhos.

Por êles estivera Quincas esperando, sua inquietação no fim da tarde devia-se apenas à demora, ao atraso da chegada dos vagabundos.

By thus suggesting, through the text itself, that Quincas was restlessly waiting for his friends to come see him, Amado tips the scales between fact and fancy back toward fancy. Taking full advantage of his right as a storyteller to employ poetic license, Amado subtly brings together what, seemingly, "did happen" with what, in a more perfect world, "should have happened," and the resultant admixture strikes a deeply affective chord in the reader. It is as if to say that the regenerative powers of love, fidelity and comradeship can, in the final throw of the dice, overcome even death itself, that when we truly love someone they can never really die. This is perhaps Amado's most basic message here, and while it can be found in many of his other books, nowhere is it more simply or more beautifully presented than it is in this novel.

As the serious drinking and commiserating get into full swing, Private Martim, who, the text suggests, has just incurred Quincas' wrath by declaring his intention of taking over for Quincas in regard to his "departed" friend's love life, promptly declares, "Vamos dar um gole a êle também … propôs o Cabo, desejoso das boas graças do morto." With Quincas now an active (if not a necessarily willing) participant in the drinking, he seems to grow in his role as a perfectly normal character. Yet Amado, never allowing Quincas' "normalcy" to develop to the point that we can feel certain he is "alive," structures his telling of the story at this point so that the events related can be viewed in more than one way. Hence, when we read, "Abriram-lhe a bôca, derramaram-lhe a cachaça. Espalhou-se um pouco pela gola do paletó e o peito da camisa," we cannot be certain about what we are to make of this action. We can, on the one hand, reason that of course the cachaça would spill, since you can pour liquor into the mouth of a cadaver but you can't make it drink! But on the other hand, a reader more in harmony with Quincas and his worthies might conclude, as they do, that the spillage is simply a matter of positioning, the kind of thing that could give anyone trouble: "—Também nunca vi ninguém beber deitado….—É melhor sentar êle. Assim pode ver as gente direito. Sentaram Quincas no caixão, a cabeça movia-se para um e outro lado."

The two actions described here, the change of Quincas' position in the coffin and the rolling of his head, serve to demonstrate Amado's awareness of the importance that an organized and integrated ambiguity makes to his story. A look at the first verb in the last sentence of the passage just cited shows clearly that Quincas' pals propped him up so that he might "drink" more successfully with them. As soon as they do this, however, Quincas' head begins to bob from side to side, this providing a rather picturesque detail that can be explained in basely physiological terms or in a more poetic manner, one, in fact, that is reinforced in the very next line, "Com o gole de cachaça ampliara-se seu sorriso." Particularly evident in this middle section of the novel, Amado's basic tactic, as we can readily see in the scene where Quincas "drinks" cachaça in his coffin, is entirely structural in its nature and function. He alternates, in an unbroken pattern, scenes that seem to demand a routinely "realistic" explanation with scenes that, often containing direct quotations from Quincas himself, make sense only when interpreted in terms of Quincas being alive. By means of this technique, Amado succeeds artistically in maintaining a nearly perfect equilibrium between a verisimilar representation of life and a supernatural one. He supplies us, one after another, with scenes which we are invited to interpret in both ways, scenes which, as with the one just noted, both advance the plot and increasingly lure the reader into the web of poetic uncertainty that slowly envelops the story.

Perhaps the outstanding example of this balancing process appears toward the end of chapter X, when Quincas and his confederates, now suffering hunger pangs, decide to set off through the dark streets of Old Salvador for Mestre Manuel's fish fry, which, they knew, was to be held that same evening at the wharf. In a structural sense, this seemingly off-hand decision to attend Captain Manuel's feed is actually the third in a four-step process by means of which Quincas will be able to "die" the second "Morte" mentioned in the title and, in so doing, bring the novel to a close. In chapter VII, the reader learned in a rather desultory manner that Quincas envisioned himself as a "velho marinheiro," and that, "… reservara ao mar a honra de sua hora derradeira, de seu momento final." In order for this carefully foreshadowed event to take place, Amado must arrange for Quincas first to die on land, which he does easily enough in chapter III, but then he must somehow be taken to the bay, where he can find his final resting place. Amado accomplishes this delicate maneuver in a way that is so smoothly done that we can easily miss it. The arrival of Quincas' four friends at his wake, an arrival anticipated by the narrative voice's reference to Quincas' impatience in waiting for them, allow Amado to provide Quincas with the means by which he can go—or be transported to—the seaside, ostensibly to "attend" Mestre Manuel's "moqueca." The hunger the group feels, after several rounds of drinks, reminds them that they should head off to Captain Manuel's fish fry, and since they decide, naturally, to take Quincas along, the reader suddenly realizes how Quincas will be able to arrive at his final, presaged destination. The beauty of Amado's technical skill here is that the fulfillment of Quincas' oath does not in any way intrude upon that part of the story which involves the delightfully ambiguous series of events that occur, in chapters IX and X, between Quincas, his friends and Vanda. In truth, the fulfillment of Quincas' final wish actually tightens the structure of the entire story, imparting to it a unity and cohesiveness it would not otherwise have had. Amado, fully in command of his story, is notably concise in his construction of the pivotal scene in which this section takes place. We read: "—Não era hoje de noite a moqueca de Mestre Manuel?—Hoje mesmo….—E por que a gente não vai? Mestre Manuel é até capaz de ficar ofendido….—A gente prometeu não deixar êle sòzinho.—Sòzinho? Por que? Ele vai com a gente…."

Then, referring to the possibility that Quincas may be "too crippled" to move, Amado adds a fine ironic touch to what seems to be Quincas' assessment of his own situation: "Consultaram Quincas:—Tu quer ir?—Tou por acaso aleijado, pra ficar aqui?"

Quincas is then stood up on his feet, but once this is done he proves none too stable, the ambiguity here being that he totters either because he is a corpse or because he is drunk. Consistent with his basic technique, Amado now has Negro Pastinha deliver the words that tip the scales once again:

Tá tão bêbedo que não se agüenta. Com a idade tá perdendo a fôrça pra cachaça. Vambora, paizinho.

Curió e Pé-de-Vento saíram na frente. Quincas, satisfeito da vida, num passo de dança, ia entre Negro Pastinha e Cabo Martim, de braço dado.

So, in this turning point scene, which is both a moving statement about the indestructable bond between Quincas and his friends and the structural device that allows Quincas to get to the seaside for a final, peaceful death, Amado presents us with the wonderfully comic yet tender picture of Pastinha and Cabo Martim, themselves inebriated, staggering along and propping up between them someone whom we might fairly describe, using an English expression that seems particularly apt here, as being "dead drunk."

As the group heads out into what the narrator is careful to describe as a "… noite fantástica, quando a lua-cheia envolvia o mistério da cidade de Bahia …," we sense that now anything is possible, that reality is no longer restricted to the corporeal realm, that now it is a relative concept, one that supercedes time and space. This lyrical, concluding movement of the tale establishes for the reader a deeply satisfying compromise between what is "realistically true" and what is "poetically true," this being precisely the goal that Amado has sought all along to attain. In terms of plot, this section of the story contains the climax, the final death of Quincas and his burial at sea, but, in terms of its structure, it continues to play out the novel's underlying ambiguity right through to the epilogue-like conclusion in chapter XII. By organizing the story in this manner, Amado succeeds in resolving the basic plot conflict at the same time that he succeeds in prolonging the structural ambiguity between what "really happened" and what "might have happened." In response to this attenuated balancing act, the reader, playing his role in the game of fiction, is drawn into the story as an active participant. He is, moreover, likely to be sympathetic to Quincas and his friends and, for that reason, is willing to suspend his rational or "realistic" interpretations of the events described in favor of more magically realistic, or poetic ones. Under the spell of Amado's skill as a teller of tales, the reader is led to feel that if this is not precisely the way it "really" was, then perhaps it should have been.

During the course of this "magic night," Quincas, aided—one way or another—by his pals, moves slowly, as if in a funeral procession, through the streets of his beloved city saying good-bye to everyone. As the narrator expresses it: "Por onde passavam, ouviam-se gritos chamando Quincas, vivando-lhe o nome. Ele agradecia com a cabeça, como um rei de volta a seu reino." Once again, the essential question is one of perspective; did Quincas voluntarily nod his own head to the crowds of well-wishers, or was his head—the head of a dead man being borne about by his drunken friends—merely lolling, uncontrollably, from side to side? The artfully structured text offers the reader no definitive answer, but, to the contrary, holds open the door for both interpretations. Later, as Quincas is "having a farewell drink" in the bar of yet another old crony, a brawl, "caused" by Quincas, erupts. When it is over, Quincas' questionable condition (he is stretched out on the floor, "unconscious"), is explained in a by now predictable fashion: "… Quincas encontrava-se estendido no chão, levara uns socos violentos, batera com a cabeça numa laje do passeio…." Moments later, Quincas is "revived" in a scene that hearkens back to the important role that alcohol plays in the second and third movements of the book: "Quincas reanimou-se mesmo foi com um bom trago. Continuava a beber daquela maneira esquisita: cuspindo parte da cachaça, num esperdício. Não fosse dia de seu aniversário e Cabo Martim chamarlhe-ia a atenção delicadamente." As we can see, at first glance it appears that Quincas himself takes a healthy swig of cachaça, but when we consider how he just seems to spit it out, to waste it, this action, given his fame as a connoisseur of good liquor and his reputation as a prodigious drinker, seems unthinkable. Thus, the essential ambiguity between what the text seems to say and what it suggests is not only maintained but intensified.

The final scene of the novel, Quincas' "burial" at sea, is arrived at economically, with no wasted motion. The "turma" arrives at the dock and everyone boards Captain Manuel's "saveiro," which is about to set sail for a moonlight cruise around the bay. The reader sees Quincas "moving about" the boat, but then, in another moment of narrative unreliability, we are told that, "Ninguém sabe como Quincas se pôs de pé, encostado à vela menor…. Só a luz do cachimbo do Mestre Manuel persistia, e a figura de Quincas, de pé, cercado pela tempestade, impassível e majestoso, o velho marinheiro." At this point, a storm, which, like the sweltering room of part one and the alcohol of part two, impairs the perception of the people around Quincas, suddenly blows up. The narrative voice then enters the story again "to explain" the uncertain circumstances surrounding the final moments of Quincas' "existence": "No meio do ruído, do mar em fúria, do saveiro em perigo, à luz dos raios, viram Quincas atirar-se e ouviram sua frase derradeira. Penetrava o saveiro nas águas calmas do quebra-mar, mas Quincas ficara na tempestade, envolto num lençol de ondas e espuma, por sua própria vontade."

Later in this concluding scene, the narrative voice tells us that the undertakers refused to take back the casket, thus implying that, for whatever the reason, Quincas had turned up missing from his own wake. But this same voice, our none too certain guide throughout the entire tale, also declares, "Quanto à frase derradeira há versoes variadas. Mas, quem poderia ouvir direito no meio daquele temporal?" As noted earlier, this indefinite, open-ended conclusion recalls for us what the tentative, self-conscious narrator says at the beginning of the story, thereby imparting a sense of circularity to its overall organization. But seen exclusively in its structural context, it is a circularity based entirely on the meticulously balanced ambiguity at work in the story between the reader's ability to know with certainty what "really" happened as opposed to his interest and curiosity in speculating about "what might have happened."

Upon completion of the reading of this remarkable novel, the reader, as usual, is struck by Amado's charm and enthusiasm as a spinner of good yarns. But, as amply evidenced here, he proves himself to be a good deal more than this as well. In A Morte e a Morte de Quincas Berro Dágua, Jorge Amado offers tangible evidence of how technically sophisticated he can be, of how effectively he can combine the best features of literature's oral tradition with those of its written form. This compact, tightly structured gem of a novel is worthy of attention by anyone interested in the organic relationship between form and content in narrative. The entire tale, composed in three distinct but closely orchestrated movements, leads us into a fictive world made believable, on one level, by an abundance of sharply drawn realistic detail, but one made enticing, on another level, by the delightful possibility that what we read is not necessarily what is meant. This pivotal ambiguity, which is a direct result of the manner in which Amado structures the text itself, establishes the vital link between the reader's perception of the story's literal truth and its figurative truth. Controlled and shaped throughout by Amado's finesse as a novelist, the ambiguity that exists between what seems to have happened and what may have happened emerges as the fundamental structural motif of the entire work, its defining characteristic. Like the great poets, with whom he has a great deal in common, Jorge Amado possesses a deep appreciation of how words, properly selected, composed and arranged, will stimulate several different streams of thought at once. Built largely on this concept, A Morte e a Morte de Quincas Berro Dágua, a novel too often overlooked by evaluators of Amado's expertise as a writer, spans the gap between poetry and prose and between oral and written literature. In so doing, it also goes a long way toward proving that Jorge Amado, long hailed as Brazil's most popular novelist, is one of its finest writers as well.