At Dobronravov’s funeral, Pakhmutova surprised her with a request: “Leave a place for me.”

In fact, the funeral took place in a democratic format. Only television cameras were not allowed to enter the Novodevichy Cemetery. There were no restrictions on entry for ordinary people.

How Dobronravov was buried – in the MK material.

At 12.00, the employees of the Novodevichy Cemetery did not really know when the ceremony would begin. “According to our scenario, from 16.00 to 18.00, there is no exact time,” answered the grave diggers.

“There was no order to close the cemetery, so everyone can watch Dobronravov’s funeral,” said one of the guards.

I haven’t remembered such freedom of action at celebrity funerals for a long time.

No guards were posted near the grave of Nikolai Dobronravov, no metal fences were installed. The police officers, whom I counted at most five, slowly strolled past the crowd. No comments were made. But just in case, two paddy wagons were on duty outside the cemetery gates.

A little more than fifty people gathered to say goodbye to Nikolai Dobronravov. Mostly older people. The conversations were peculiar.

A gray-haired man in a brown suit and tie read loudly: “I will not part with the Komsomol.” Nearby, old people were arguing about who was to blame for “fucking up” the Soviet Union. A little further on, a group of noisy pensioners were remembering Stalin. The women talked about pressing issues—health.

There was also a discussion of music. “In Soviet times there were such powerful songs, but now you turn on the radio, it’s disgusting to listen to. I want to write a complaint to the Ministry of Culture, let them review the repertoire,” the man with the beard was indignant.

Closer to 16.00, someone shouted: “That’s it, the hearse is coming.”

“Hold your position,” commanded a woman of about 60 wearing huge dark glasses and ran closer to the tents that were set up near the grave.

Three ladies were already holding the position at that place. True, one of them admitted that she collapsed from fatigue.

“Sit down on the grave,” a friend suggested to her, “There is no truth in the feet.”

At this time, street cleaners were sweeping away the last fallen leaves from the paths, and cemetery employees were scrubbing the fence posts that had been placed near the grave of the songwriter.

Cars with relatives drove into the cemetery. We parked next to Boris Yeltsin’s grave.

Dobronravov’s widow, Alexandra Pakhmutova, was dressed in a warm coat, although it was hot outside. Someone threw a fur cape over her shoulders.

Of the stars, Lev Leshchenko, Yulian and Stanislav Sadalsky came to the cemetery.

The procession moved on foot to the 11th precinct.

Alexandra Pakhmutova approached the grave when the coffin was lowered into the ground. I didn’t watch them bury them. She returned to the tent and sat down on a chair. She was surrounded by friends and relatives. Ambulance officers were on duty nearby.

Alexandra Nikolaevna did not cry, did not withdraw into herself. She recalled stories related to Dobronravov, tried to joke and somehow cheer up the others. It seemed like she didn’t want to be pitied.

– Did you leave a place nearby for me? – nodded towards Pakhmutov’s grave. “I’m only a year younger than Kolya.” Therefore, I will also need a place. I don’t need a lot of land, I’m not that fat. Just a small piece.

Periodically, Alexandra Pakhmutova addressed those gathered who were embarrassed to approach her.

At some point, a man from the crowd of fans ran up to the woman: “Take a note, I am a rehabilitation specialist from Novosibirsk.”

The man was immediately taken out and reprimanded.

– What was it? – Pakhmutova did not understand.

Then a man approached her: “I work at the Bolshoi Theater, I invite you to join us.”

Alexandra Nikolaevna never tired of thanking people: “Thank you for coming. Thank you, otherwise I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“What a strong woman, she didn’t shed a single tear,” fans were surprised, looking at Dobronravov’s widow.

The second time Pakhmutova approached the grave, when a cross was installed on the mound and flowers were laid.

At the exit from the cemetery, Alexandra Nikolaevna was greeted by television cameras.

“We need to cover you with a scarf so that your faces cannot be seen,” the attendants whispered to her and threw a black scarf over the woman.

“You can also put it on yourself at the same time,” Pakhmutova joked with a hint of bitterness in her voice.

There was just over an hour left before the cemetery closed. The people were in no hurry to leave. People staged an impromptu concert. The songs of Pakhmutova and Dobronravov began to swell: “How young we were, how sincerely we loved, how we believed in you…”