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merry. The sea breeze put out the candles and drifted over to kiss Quincas on the cheek. The light spread out over him, blue and festive. A victorious smile was on his lips as Quincas settled himself better in the coffin.

7
    By that time the news of the unexpected death of Quincas Water-Bray was already circulating through the streets of Bahia. It is quite true that the small merchants at the market didn’t close their doors as a sign of mourning. In compensation, however, they immediately raised the price of the Bahian trinkets, straw bags, and clay statuettes that they sold to tourists, paying their homage to the dead man in that way. All about the market there were hurried consultations, something like emergency meetings, with people going back and forth. The news was in the air, going up on the Lacerda Elevator, traveling along on streetcars to Calçada, by bus to Feira de Santana. Lovely black Paula was breaking up in tears at her tapioca-cake stand. Water-Bray wouldn’t be coming by that afternoon to whisper his well-chosen come-ons to her, peeking into her ample breasts, propositioning her for wicked things, making her laugh.
    On the skiffs with lowered sails the men of the realm of Iemanjá, bronzed sailors, were unable to hide their disappointed surprise: How could that death have taken place in a room in Tabuão? How could the old sailor have given up the ghost in a bed? Hadn’t Quincas Water-Bray proclaimed so decisively and so many times with a voice and gesture capable of convincing the strongest doubter that theonly tomb worthy of his roguery was the sea, its endless waters all bathed in moonlight?
    Whenever he found himself the guest of honor on the poop of a skiff, looking over a sensational fish stew as the clay pot gave off its fragrant fumes and the bottle of cachaça went from hand to hand, there was always a moment, as the guitars began to be plucked, when his maritime instincts would awaken. He would stand up, his body swaying, the cachaça giving him that weaving roll of men of the sea, and he would declare his status of “old sailor.” An old sailor without a sea and without a ship, corrupted on land but through no fault of his own. For he had been born for the sea, for hoisting sails and controlling the tiller of skiffs, conquering the waves on stormy nights. His destiny had been cut off, he who could have gotten to be the captain of a ship, wearing a blue uniform, with a pipe in his mouth. But he never stopped being a sailor. That was because he had been born to his mother, Madalena, granddaughter of a ship’s captain. He was maritime from his great-grandfather on down, and if they had given him that skiff, he would have been capable of taking it out to sea, not just to Maragogipe or Cachoeira close-by but also, yes, to the faraway coasts of Africa in spite of never having sailed. It was in his blood. He didn’t have to learn anything about navigation; he’d been born with the knowledge. If anyone in that select audience harbored any doubts, let him step forth.…He tipped the bottle and drank with great gulps. The skiff masters had no doubts; it could well be the truth. Along the waterfront and on the beaches, boys were born knowing the things of the sea. It wasn’t worth the trouble to look for explanations. Then Quincas Water-Bray would make his solemn pledge: He was reserving the honor of his last hours for the sea, his final moment. They weren’t going to stick him six feet under the ground—oh no, not that! When his time came he woulddemand the freedom of the sea, the journeys he hadn’t taken when he was alive, the most daring crossings, unmatched deeds. Master Manuel, without nerves or age, the most daring of the skiff captains, nodded his approval. The others, whom life had taught never to doubt anything, also agreed, taking another swig of booze. The guitars were plucked. They sang to the magic of nights at sea, Janaína’s fatal seduction. The “old sailor” was singing