"But of course, my friend. All we have to do is say the word to the pilot and it's as good as done. While we're blowing the mountain to smithereens he'll take you wherever you like." I took a bottle of brandy I had brought from Paris out of my knapsack and we poured it into three good-sized thick glass tumblers. They drank, exchanged doubtful glances. Russian custom forbids the criticism of fare that is a gift. "It's… good," Big Lev concluded. "Yes, not bad," Little Lev agreed. "It's like the wine they give you in church. I expect women like it. Would you care for a drop, Valya?"

Valya, the cook, shook her head. Her arms white with flour up to the elbows, she was kneading dough on a big table at the other end of the room. An enormous woman: a heavy, rounded bosom thrusting out beneath her thick sweater, a broad backside that, when on a stool, covered the seat completely. Her eyes slanted like those of the Yakut, but her skin was very white. A carnal robustness reminiscent of the women of the Ukraine. "What man could take on such a giantess?" I thought with a mixture of fear and admiration.

Now I am listening to Little Lev telling the story on which he has embarked. "… So there you are. He lands in the middle of the taiga all the way from Moscow. He has no idea about anything, but he's a bit like all of you, full of energy. And, right away, the old Siberians say to him, 'If you want to be one of us there are three things you've got to do: first, down a bottle of vodka in one gulp; second, screw a Yakut woman; and third, go out into the taiga and shake a bear by the paw.' Well, your man jumps up, grabs a bottle, and presto, downs it in one gulp! Then he runs out into the taiga. An hour later he comes back, all covered in scratches, and yells at the top of his voice: 'Right. Now show me a Yakut woman and I'll shake her paw.' Ha-ha-ha…"