I was
hurriedly starting this when Guide Brian’s version popped up. I’ll leave in what may still be useful.
My
parents’ urn is buried at the Cimetière de Clarens, av. Rambert 27. The
cemetery s a 10’ taxi ride, 15’ by bus (ask the man to stop at the Simmy T. Yare), or 25’ by foot as hiker Boyd suggests. Enter
the gate on Av. Rambert (opposite the
gardener/florist). Walk straight, then take your third right. The Nabokov tomb
(which some people have trouble finding) will be the third one on your left
(modern, polished grey granite). The gardener’s phone, in case you need further
information, is 021 964 46 33. If you are accosted by a strange Russian with a
mystic’s eyes who says he knows everything about Nabokov, decline (he is a fired
assistant soccer coach trying to make a fast
franc).
If you
enter the Palace through the main, lakeside entrance from the Grand-Rue, rather
than the back courtyard (which was the principal entry during many of the Nabokovs’ years there), you will find yourself in a modern
atrium where a posthumous statue of VN sculpted by the Rukavishnikovs and presented to Montreux by Moscow stood until recently, awaiting the
completion of its permanent, park-like site across the
street.
If you
want a personalized reception, ask for the Director, my very good friend Hans
Wiedemann. Even though he came to the Palace when
Father was no longer there, he is touchingly proud to manage Nabokov’s former residence, and named our floor of the Cygne wing “Étage Nabokov.” If he
is not there ask for Mme. Bigger, his Publicity Assistant and another dear
friend. If you would like to prepare your visit in advance, call the management
at 021 962 1212 (you may be switched around and kept on hold, but don’t give
up). And say hello to head barman Antonio, who is one the very few people still
there who knew my father well. He will be either at the hotel bar or at Harry’s
Club next door.
The
station restaurant at Caux is no longer run by my
friend Helmut but is still beautifully situated. Or stay on that little blue cog
train up to the Rochers-de-Naye (a bit over an hour
from Montreux and a splendid ride) where Father walked
in summer and I ski in winter.
If you get
to