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His cigars are the best. When he sensed the shift of politics in Cuba, he bought 3,000 of his favorite Upmann Montecristos at 75é apiece, and had them stored in the humidor in Manhattan's "21" Club, from which he draws, in miserly fashion, enough for two or three smokes a day. "It's not a vice," he explains. "If I couldn't get the right brands, I wouldn't smoke at all. You know, in films when a soldier is dying, the first thing they do is stuff a cigarette into his mouth, and he dies happily. If I were that soldier and you stuffed a cigar in my mouth, I'd kick you. The occasion has to be right."
Play Something. He is also an inveterate raconteur. "I love to talk," he says. "But I jump around. If I tell you I like this lamp, I'm likely to start talking about Nietzsche or pre-Bach music or Chinese art or God knows what."
One of Rubinstein's favorite stories concerns his first meeting with the Duke of Windsor.
"I first met him at a private dinner in London when he was the Prince of Wales. I was in a very good mood that evening and amused him very much. He wouldn't let me go; he took me to two clubs and to the theater. At 3 o'clock in the morning, he said suddenly, 'I don't know much about music, but I hear you're very good. Would you mind playing something?' I couldn't say no to the Prince of Wales, so we drove up to St. James's Palace and went into a drawing room. In the corner was the piano, a Louis Quinze relic with thin little legs and lots of pictures on it. 'My mother. Queen Mary, arranged that,' the Duke said. I saw I couldn't do much with the piano, so I decided to play a Chopin Polonaise, invariably an effective piece for an unmusical person. When I struck the first big fortissimo chord, the entire piano collapsed at my feet. That was the end of the concert."
The Worst Hours. If there is ever a time when Rubinstein is not his gregarious, fun-loving self, it is in the hours before a concert. If he arrives early, he likes to watch television (he knows the plots of all the soap operas) or go to the movies—any movie. He will practice scales in thirds under his hat while he watches the film, and in the taxi later, he will drum out the right-hand portion of a Chopin etude. Back at the hotel room, as Nela Rubinstein fiddles nervously with her gold necklace, her husband will warm up a bit at the piano.
"Those are the worst hours," she says. "To pity him: wrong. To try to calm him: wrong. If he fumes, he wants you to fume with him. There is nothing you can do, really. Certain subjects are taboo at these times—anything upsetting, anything about his pieces for that day. Even remarking that he's never made a mistake in one of them. If you say that, he will."