Zhenya

You're getting off the plane at Sheremetyevo, and shaggy-haired Zhenya makes his way through the crowd. He opens his arms wide:

— Oh, a French cat has arrived! Or should I say Boget?

You roll your eyes but smile:

• Zhenya, stop it.

— HAHAHA, don't be mad, bro! — he pats you on the shoulder. — I've already heated up the bathhouse! We'll steam ourselves, and then — in the river! This isn't Paris!

An hour later, you're sitting in the dressing room, flushed. The heat is so intense it melts the air. The brooms whip so hard, sparks fly from your eyes. And then you fly out onto the porch and, with a running start, splash into the icy river water.

The water stings with cold, takes your breath away. You snort and laugh. Zhenya spits and suddenly, looking at you seriously, says:

• Listen, I really like your purring.