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If it were any other person in the world, Santeri would have told them to fuck off and never come back.
But it was Tino, whom he had known for seventy-odd years, so Santeri just frowned and allowed his companion unrestricted access to the backyard. Said companion proceeded to run headfirst in the direction of the animal sheds, slipping on the mud at least twice before disappearing from sight. Santeri sighs, feeling way too old for all this, and returns to Tino, who at least isn't running anywhere.
“And why exactly do you need a goat again?”
Tino rests his chin on his palm, following the sharp movements of a shadow, quickly finding its way through Santeri’s large and a bit overgrown backyard.
“You see, he has heard somewhere people saying that goats are allowed on trains along with dogs and other pets. He wants to run an experiment.”
Something cracks loudly, and a quite heavy object falls to the ground. Santeri looks back from the fence they've been standing at and into the maze of sheds and other outbuildings on what used to be a substantial farm. Intuition tells him that, as long as there are no screams, everything is okay. Kinda.
“Who even is this guy?”
Tino chuckles, and a mischievous expression flickers on his face.
“Oh, this is our eastern neighbor.”
"This?" Santeri rolls his eyes, his voice heavy with disbelief. "This clumsy, cheerful idiot who looks permanently tipsy?"
“I assure you, he is only clumsy when happy. And he doesn't need any alcohol to forget how to use his legs.”
“Are you sure?” Santeri side-eyes him while turning to look at the backyard once again. Metal screeches on metal and hens break out of their space.
"I'm nine hundred years sure," Tino replies, eyes closed.
Santeri knew who he was. It's hard not to notice that a person you've met when you were five years old doesn't change. You go to school, then to the university, and they remain the same. You marry, your kids go to school, and they still look thirty-something, only scars appear and disappear on their skin. Your kids move to the city, your grandkids are born, your spouse dies, and they are standing here, with the same chuckle you remember from your childhood, with the same habit of closing their eyes when reminiscing about something. Santeri looks down at some thorny weed covering the foot of the fence. Tino would probably look the same long after Santeri himself passes beyond the green fields of his farm.
"If it wasn't you, I wouldn't have believed it," says Santeri after a pause. Tino's companion is now running around the backyard chasing a young goat, his grizzled hair catching the sun of the late spring day.
“I know.”
Tino looks to the side, pretending to watch the goat chase but in reality just staring into space. The wind rustles Santeri's hair, blows up the collar of his blue shirt. The goat has jumped on the top of the brick bundle, maybe even more scared than the catcher.
"When my time is over, will you come to send me off?" asks Santeri quietly. They have known each other for the entire Santeri's life, it will be only fair.
Tino almost sighs under his breath. Maybe he shouldn't have stayed in his life so long. But he has been making the same choice over and over again as centuries passed. Making friends and bidding them farewell, left to stand alone on the shore while their ships set sails and disappeared into the evening shadows. An excited cry breaks the silence, and the goat bleats desperately. Well, not entirely alone.
“I will.”
***
People boarding the train side-eye the goat in the middle section of the carriage but don't say anything. Some even take a seat nearby, as the train gets more crowded. Finally, Braginsky nods in the direction of the vestibule. As they go, Tino catches the wire of the headphones of an elderly gentleman with his backpack, and in the short pause before he reattaches the headphones, the entire carriage can hear a couple of phrases from Rentun Ruusu.
As they stand in the vestibule, Tino starts to hum the tune. Braginsky looks up at him from the floor, where he has been collecting the goat's droppings.
“Oh yeah, the song about lying in a ditch.”
“He still gives her flowers.”
“Sure, adding that he's a scoundrel and warning her not to have any expectations.”
Tino shoots him an ice-cold glare, which only makes Braginsky smile. If only this trick ever worked on him, much could have been avoided.
“It's called self-deprecation.”
Russia arches his eyebrow.
“It's called ‘absolving oneself of responsibility.’ Now if she accepts, he can always say ‘oh, but you knew who I am, so it's all your fault '. And it's also called ‘refusing to grow,’ because instead of lying in a ditch he could actually do something with his life.”
“Have you ever heard about sarcasm?”
“A couple of times, courtesy of yours,” retorts Ivan, “though I've always found that you have a hard time differentiating between ‘sarcasm’ and ‘bullshit self-deprecation’.”
“Bullsh-!”
“Sorry, I meant to say ‘totally normal self-irony’.” Braginsky grins. “Who is dying this time?”
No way in hell Tino expected that. He pauses, startled, and falls silent for long enough for the goat to start chewing his sleeve. Russia stays silent, too, absentmindedly patting the goat's head.
"Santeri," finally says Tino.
“I’ll be coming with you,” the reply is immediate. “If you have any doubts, I will ask him myself.”
“No need.” Tino pats the goat's head, too.
At the next station, the ticket control finally enters the carriage, and Braginsky freezes, a hopeful anticipation evident on his face. The goat bleats loudly.
Of course, the conductors come to them first. Ivan converses with them in such an eloquent book Finnish that billeters exchange suspicious glares. Tino hears a couple of expressions that were pretty popular in Helsinki sometime in the mid 19th century and bites his cheek not to crack the widest smile possible. For the billeters, it's definitely the last straw, and they finally ask for his documents. With a courteous smile, Braginsky hands them a double-headed eagle passport along with a hard plastic rectangle of oleskelulupa. Billeters’ expressions turn from suspicious to scared and then settle for the “puzzled, mildly concerned” looks. But there is nothing they can do, Ivan's documents are impeccable, Tino made sure of it. The goat’s bleat surely contains a hidden plea, but the billeters stare at it blankly and proceed further into the carriage to the more normal in all senses of this word passengers.
Tino looks at Braginsky with a clear reproach.
“People are just doing their job.”
"Do you think I was impolite?" Ivan smirks.
“I think you have confused a century a little bit.”
“But does it mean I was impolite?” insists Braginsky with a most angelic smile.
“Okay, okay, it was one of the most polite pranks I've ever witnessed,” admits Tino. Braginsky beams.
“Finally! Finally I got to impress you!”
He laughs. Finland rolls his eyes.
“Could you please find a way of impressing me that does not involve innocent people?”
“And now I've proven that goats are indeed admitted to the VR carriages, which is a net positive.”
“Don't change the subject,” says Tino in a menacing voice, until the goat bumps his leg slightly with its forehead. And it's at this moment that Tino realizes that Russia and the goat are actually in league.
The train rolls into the Tampere main station with a delay of two minutes, and Braginsky proudly disembarks, leading the goat close to his side.
“What now?” asks Tino, breathing in the cool air, which smells of dust and oil.
Ivan shoots him a look full of superiority.
“We are looking for another train.”
“Another train?” Tino raises his brow. “I thought you had business in Tampere. Hence all your 19th-century linguistic shenanigans.”
“Nah, not at all. We have proven it's possible to travel with the goat, now we need to return the poor animal to its rightful owner. And also probably go for a couple of drinks all together.”
Tino takes a very deep breath, goes another four centuries back, and gives Braginsky a well-earned slap on the back of his head.