I cannot bear to speakabout my burning village,my parents and sisters, or my Cuban wifewho died too young or our sonwho moved awayto who-knows-where and never visits,never writes. I have no wisdom to offerwhen it comes to the artof waiting for answers. DANIEL Waiting for a futureand an understandingof the past means waiting for an endto a war, far away, so instead of tormenting myselfwith impatient questionsabout Europe’s suffering, I find my escapeby playing el sartén,a strangely simpleCuban musical instrumentmade by clashingtwo frying pans togetherlike cymbals in an orchestra,the sound of thunderor hoofbeats, the musicof runningand rage. DANIEL Paloma introduces meto Ernesto Lecuona,a great Cuban composerwhose father vanishedwhen Ernesto was only five. To support his family,the boy played pianoin those old-fashioned theaterswhere silent-movie starsdanced on white screens. Now, watching Lecuona’s handsas they dance on the piano,I discover the secretof his genius— both hands are calm,his hands are a team, and so are his inspirationsas he blends the wistful melodiesof Spainwith hopeful rhythmsfrom Africa, creating an entirely newsort of music,the sound of a futuredancing with the past.
