Ruben Gonzales. The Magician.

By Wim Wenders

If it hadn't been for the piano, he would have become a doctor.
And if you had chained him to his instrument,
he would have been happy…

Ruben without his piano:
a rather timid, modest, frail man.
(Somebody, though, who was ready for a laugh or a practical joke
at any given moment.)
Ruben at the piano:
a force of nature, a giant,
unstoppable and with a never-ending energy.
There were just not enough keys to the grand piano, for him,
so sometimes he would continue playing in the air on its left or its right.

And then, fireworks of sounds came out of it.
Such swinging rhythms,
with such a weightless and relaxed ease,
such a joy of living,
that one would seriously expect
the three-legged heavy instrument to start dancing.

Yesterday, the piano has lost its most charming lover.
And all the pianos of this world
will mourn on the anniversaries of Ruben's death.

More than anything I will remember that rainy morning in Havana,
when my film crew met at the door of the EGREM studio
two hours before the regular opening time.
The doorman came and opened the gate for us prematurely,
so that we could bring in the equipment and prelight the studio.
Somehow Ruben had gotten wind of this.
He was already standing in front of the locked gate when we arrived.
And the second the key turned from within,
he already slipped through the door.
He would not have missed the chance
to spend two additional hours at his beloved Grand Piano.
There he was, in his winter coat, playing as if there was no tomorrow,
no matter how loud the racket around him.
For each of the electricians and for each worker,
as well as for each of us, the yet unknown film team,
he had a friendly look, and a wink of the eye for the girls.
How else could I remember Ruben Gonzales.

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