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His English remains a performance as well. Once, Slava bounced into the Russian Tea Room, Manhattan's best-known musicians' hangout and, spotting an old friend across the crowded room, released a full-voiced salutation consisting of several raunchy eleven, twelve-and 13-letter cuss words. The room grew silent. The borscht turned pale. "See!" crowed Slava cheerily. "I learn your language!"
Slava rarely practices the cello; he seems always to be warmed up and ready to go. He can run on for days in a row without sleep. Some years ago, during a hectic concert tour, he sat down on a stage to play the Dvorak Cello Concerto and fell asleep during the orchestral introduction. Startled when his cue came, he whispered to the conductor: "You played that so magnificently that I was spellbound. Please start again."
For relaxation, he watches sports on television, collects antiques, reads Russian authors (Maximov, Nekrasov, Sinyavsky) whose works are not published in the Soviet Union. He enjoys the company of fellow exiles, such as Poet Joseph Brodsky and Dancer Mikhail Baryshnikov. He is a tireless Five-F man, in constant pursuit (in no special order) of Fiddles, Food, Females, Friends—and Fodka. He is a shameless flirt, eats like an orchestra, and puts away more booze than a commissar at a convention. "What I remember first about Slava," says Seiji Ozawa, "is lots of drinking. He taught me how to drink fantastic amounts. After one night with him, the next day is gone." His constant companion is a pocket-size, wire-haired dachshund named Puks. Rostropovich has taught Puks to leap on the piano bench and bang away at the keyboard with his front paws. Friends observe that what is remarkable is not that Puks can play so well, but that he can play at all.
Slava will get ten additional musicians—mainly strings—to bring the N.S.O. to a full complement of 106. He knows that the orchestra has never been top flight, but he is eager to make it so and dreams of the day when he might take it to Moscow to show it off. He is convinced— long with many of his musicians—that what the orchestra needs most is a massive infusion of confidence.
He has already established an informal open house at his Watergate Hotel suite; any orchestra member may come along with his instrument to play for the conductor or simply to talk about his work. Part of Slava's new look is already visible this season. The musicians now tune up backstage. Then they file into their seats ready to play, sparing the audience the customary din of warm-up noodling.
These are small beginnings, but most observers agree that the N.S.O. never had a better chance to make fine music. It is a notable opportunity for Rostropovich as well. Though he has no intention of giving up the cello, he is determined to make himself a great conductor. "It was my first dream," he says. "If I play cello or piano, I make sound through instruments, but this instrument is not alive. A conductor must make very deep connection, not with instruments but people. He must use not only baton but also eyes, expression and, most important, his musical personality."