As I may have mentioned a few times, I now live in Berlín. No, I’ve not given up on Costa Rica and gone back to the Tschermans; instead, I just moved to a community that was evidently founded by Germans a few centuries ago. Angela and I moved into a house that her brother bought with the money he got from us when we bought a piece of land he had (follow that?). In any case, we’re right in the midst of her family, and our house is within shouting distance of her sister Antonieta’s house.
Things are good in Berlin, especially since her family has let up a bit and stopped coming by daily to bring food and help clean the house. I personally felt rather positive about that part, but Angela was feeling suffocated. I suppose that might have also been a result of living at home for 27 years, living apart from her family a month, and then moving right back “home” again. Go figure.
Anyhow, the house is kind of old, and it was effectively abandoned for 5 years. But her brother Ronald was awesome about getting it repaired and cleaned up, which for me fueled many fantasies about leaving those whining students at school and joining in on the fixer-upper bonanza. Still, I had to work at my regular job and couldn’t help Ronald much, unfortunately. But the house looks great, and it’s feeling more comfortable every day. I’ve never known what it felt like to have a place to call my own, where I could put a nail wherever I damn well felt like, without worrying about a landlord’s wrath when I moved out. It feels “cool.”
So, we’re Angela and I are now enjoying the beautiful views of the Gulf of Nicoya (still very far away), and enjoying doing married things, like cooking and killing cockroaches together.
Life’s pretty good. Anyhow, I was going to include some photos of the inside of the house, but it’s really not too interesting, I guess. In any case, the most interesting part is what I’ve come to call the Torture/Crucifix Room. Tacked onto the back of the house, apparently as an afterthought, is a fifth bedroom. Ronald (and the interior decorator) must have forgotten that room, because it looks like it was kind of thrown together at the last minute, and when we moved in, the only object to speak of in the room was a damaged crucifix. Also, despite the electrical lines, the room doesn’t have any electricity. And the only entrance is from the outside. So, we couldn’t really use it for living quarters, so now we just hang the laundry in there if we don’t want to put in the dryer and if it’s raining. Still, take a look at the room, and tell me you don’t agree it totally looks like you could torture someone in there:
Detail of the room, with non-functioning light socket (or possibly it only works when plugged into a victim tied with dingy handkerchiefs to a wire mattress spring).
Extra exposed electrical lines, next to a defunct outlet. For the torturer who wants to break the monotony and take the pain outside on nice days.
The room’s eponymous battered crucifix, which can be used to remind the victim that you are punishing him because of his imagined transgressions against God and the Kingdom of Heaven; can also double as a blunt object.
Sitzman
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You know, I really think the fact that Jesus is missing his arm adds to the rhetorical impact of the room. It says to the torturee, “Hey, Jesus was not only nailed to a cross and crowned with thorns, but in this torture room, he also lost a limb. You betta watch your ass, dammit.”