Tolyan was buried modestly. Much more modest than he could have imagined during his lifetime. Quietly, without the usual sad-ritual pomp among us, provincial Russian inhabitants, in the form of a dull, half-drunk brass band on duty and the scattering of fir branches or fresh flowers along the road in front of the procession, equipped at its head with a set of wreaths intertwined with inscribed mourning ribbons. And there was no procession, as such, in the generally accepted sense. Acting as a hearse, a battered truck with a coffin in a body covered with old carpets and folded sides; behind him are four or five closest, most of them elderly, neighbors. Next, a little to the side, for some reason, was a local police inspector, who had never before been a close Tolyan friend. The rearguard was made up of a gang of not entirely sober brothers in leisure time who joined halfway - amateur fishermen, thoroughly smelling of fish scales, river wind and something else rather unpleasant.