No, I didn’t do it, it wasn’t me. I don’t know why they always blame me, I’ve never done anything in all my life, but in the end they always blame me. At times it’s only a little thing, like something left to go bad in the fridge, at times it’s something more important, for example when fifty pounds have gone missing.
I don’t complain. I clean out the fridge when they say I’m the one who dirtied it, I find an extra job to pay back the money someone else stole. I don’t want to quarrel, because I’m their guest and if they decided to send me back home there’d be nothing I could do. At home I don’t have to clean out the fridge that someone else dirtied because there is no fridge. At home I don’t even have to work to pay back money someone else stole, because there isn’t any money or any work. Nothing is worse than having to go back home.
I’ve spent many years cleaning refrigerators and paying back money to other people. I’ve never made a fuss, I’ve never stirred up any revolution. I only wanted to keep on being a guest. One day they sacked me, and I couldn’t pay back the money someone else had stolen. It didn’t matter to them that I’d done everything they for wanted for years, that I’d worked like a slave and given them almost everything I’d earned. They sent me back home.
They accompanied me to the plane along with others they no longer wanted as their guests. I cried hard when they told me they didn’t want me as their guest any more, and on the plane we were all depressed. It was the first time I’d taken a plane, and I couldn’t believe how fast it was.
After landing we began to smell the familiar air outside and we cheered up and started to chat. There was a whole group who lived near where I lived, so we went there together. We told each other what we’d seen, where we’d been, and almost all of their stories were the same as mine. We got to my house, happy to be back in our country, but my house was no longer there. We went to where the others remembered their houses, but they weren’t there, either.
We didn’t know what to do; then one of us had the idea to build a house for our group, to replace the ones that were missing. Some had learned to be builders, others plumbers, others painters. We didn’t put in a fridge and no one stole money. Each of us had a room, but we spent practically all our time in the garden, working the land together, or in the living-room watching football on t.v. Every once in while we met up to play football ourselves. We were happy not to be guests any more, to be back in our country, which we’d almost completely forgotten during our long absence.
On day it started to rain. It had never rained like that where we were guests, and it went on raining for many days on end. Water started coming in through the roof, the basement was already full and our provisions had almost all gone off because there was no fridge. After a while, we had to leave the house to look for help because it was falling down and we had nothing left to eat.
We found a refugee camp, where they gave us a waterproof tent and something to eat, which we recognized by its smell. We talked to other people in the camp but their language had a different accent, even if it was the same as ours. We understood that this camp was our real country, the place we’d left behind, the place that had made us so desperate that we wanted to stay in the house where we’d been guests.
We’d spent all our savings on a house that wasn’t suitable for local conditions, and soon we started to think about new destinations. We wanted to find work as guests in other places. One person in the group was in touch with some friends in a marvellous place where there was money and work and a clear fridge in every house. I could hardly believe that a place like that was real, but my friend insisted, so we set out trying to find a way to get there. It wasn’t easy and in the end only half of the group found a job. I left with few expectations, but with the desire never to have to come back to the camp.
It was raining when we arrived, but it wasn’t like our rain, and the houses withstood the rain. We lived all together in a small flat with at least three people per room. We had a clean fridge and no one stole money. They paid us well at work, they were pleased with what we could do and taught us the rest without complaining. Our firms were more efficient thanks to us and soon our boss asked us if we knew others like us. So we had the rest of the group come over, too, and they let another flat and we managed to save most of our wages.
After some years we put our saving together and built ourselves a house in this land where we were guests who were made to feel at home. It was even bigger and more beautiful than the one we’d built in our country: everyone had a room, there was a large living-room and a nice, big kitchen with a lovely, clean fridge. We got to know our hosts better and got along well with them. Some of the group started to leave the house to form a family, leaving room for others, good people who didn’t dirty the fridge and didn’t steal.
But even now, once a year we throw a big party in our house for everyone living there and everyone who has lived there, wives and children included, and we have an even better time if it’s raining for the occasion, because it’s a great excuse to tell about our old house that didn’t stand up to the rain in our country, because it’s a lot harder than the soft drops that fall here. And we all hope that our children won’t ever have to get to know the rain in our country.