Slowly, solemnly Artur Rubinstein unfurled his arms and began to play the familiar melody. His nobly sloping brow tilted heavenward, his wispy white hair swirled about his dome like a wreath of cumulo-cirrus, his milky blue eyes shuttered in repose. Then, suddenly, everything went haywire. His left hand skittered out of control, his right did nip-ups. Harmonies collided, the tempo skidded and stumbled. Rubinstein did not bat an eye. His family and friends, huddled around the Steinway in a Manhattan hotel room, laughed heartily.
Artur...
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