The case of Robert Rantala

February 2010

”I want my son back. I don’t care how, just make them give me my son back!”

The woman hung up the phone. Ivan fell down into his chair with a big sigh. Finally. They had been talking for what seemed like forever. Or she had been talking; Ivan really hadn’t managed to say much.

He could understand why she was so upset, of course. Irina Rantala’s child had been taken from her, and she wanted him back. That was reasonable. What Ivan couldn’t understand was why she thought he was the one who should take care of her problem.

Shaking his head, Ivan poured himself a glass of vodka. Everyone apparently thought he should get involved in the case. Irina had spoken who the media first of all, and the news had created quite an uprising among his people. The name of Irina’s son, Robert, seemed to be on everybody’s lips these days, and they wanted him to do something about the situation. Even though it was really Finland’s business, not his.

Ivan took a sip from his glass. He had never encouraged people to leave his country or marry foreigners. It was well known that his views on relationships and upbringing and such were not the same as many of the other countries, so there were bound to be some difficulties. His people knew that, but left to get married anyway. Then they came running back to him when things got rough. Ivan was tempted to ignore the whole thing, with Dagestan and the Caucasian countries acting up again he had way more important things to do.

Still, Robert Rantala was part of his people. And his mother wanted him back. There’s hardly any reason for the social services to take a 7-year old into custody if the parents want and have the means to take care of him, right?

With another sigh, Ivan emptied the glass and reached for the phone. Time to talk to Finland.

Tino was sitting in his sofa, glued to the television. In one hand he had a can of beer and the other was dug deeply into a bag of dried ryebread crackers. He couldn't let his eyes leave the screen for anything in the world.
Nothing was more important than Olympic Ice Hockey.

And especially not when his own little lions were up against that gay Berwaldo ass.

It wasn't looking very well at all though. Finland had scored at first but now Sweden was in the lead. Just like always. And exactly as nerv wrecking as always. Perkelevittusaatanajumalautatuplaperkele.

Suddenly a loud IHANAA LEIJONAT, IHANAA reached his ears. It clearly wasn't from the TV, which could only mean it was his phone. Well at least his ringtone matched. But...

But...

But...

...the icehockey game...!

He reached out for his phone and took a quick glance at the screen to see who was calling. And what in the whole world could Ivan want him right now? Ivan of all people should know he's busy. Or maybe he's gotten too concentrated on the figure skating to remember the icehockey? Oh goddamnit.

"Moro Vanski."

((Ja laga de så att Tino int vet nå eftersom de va ganska tyst hit i trakten. 8>))

Ivan was already starting to think that Finland wouldn’t answer when he heard the others voice.

“Moro Vanski”

Ok, that was unusual. And a little annoying. Ivan had half a mind to start off the conversation by calling Tino “dear” or “my sweet” or something similar. Like in the old days. As common as such things were at Ivan’s place, Tino always seemed to dislike it. Ivan remembered that one time…

Ivan caught the unmistakable sounds of an overexcited Finnish sports commentator in the background. Oh. Right. The Olympic Ice Hockey. Ivan had completely forgotten about it. No wonder Finland seemed preoccupied. It was pretty much a miracle that he had answered at all. The Finnish team must be losing.

Ivan himself hadn’t really cared for sports since he ceased to be the Soviet Union. Without the possibility to send bad athletes off to Siberia, where was the fun in it?

“Sorry to disturb you”, Ivan said politely. “I’m calling about a common citizen of ours, by the name of Robert Rantala.”