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Набокововед Ольга Воронина (с которой познакомилась летом 2017 благодаря прекрасному Геннадию Александровичу) пишет:

In July of 2011, Dr. Barabtarlo invited our entire family to Montreux. While my five-year-old son and his father were riding a boat across Lake Geneva and taking turns on the merry-go-round by Chillon Castle, he and I went to have lunch with Dmitri Nabokov, whom I had not seen since the Nabokov Centennial events in St. Petersburg, and then to visit the two graves at the Clarens cemetery – a short walk along immaculately maintained alleyways. The graveyard was deserted. Upon approaching the writer’s tombstone, however, we discovered a peculiar trove of devotional offerings from Russian tourists scattered on its polished surface: soaked notes with verses copied in bleeding ink, coins and banknotes, plastic butterflies, and those dreadful artificial roses that parody lovely flora, rather than pay homage to anyone by alluding to them. I took a pail and began to clean up.