The Fall of an Angel

Author: Yu Lihua (USA)
Editor: Yang Du / et al.
Publisher:
Publish Date: 1999-06-01
Features: Excerpt: From my home to the airport, Anqi Lake is a must-pass place. Though called a lake, it is actually smaller than a lake but larger than a pond. On the freezing days of winter, a thick layer of ice forms on the lake, which doesn’t melt for a long time. Children who aren’t afraid of the cold often skate on the ice. Sometimes, even when the irises by the lake have already sprouted fuzzy yellow and light purple heads, children skate back and forth on the ice. When driving past, I see little people in red, white, orange, or green hats weaving and crossing on the ice in front of a vast expanse of withered branches. I often stop the car or slow down to watch. Their rosy cheeks, blown red by the biting wind, contrast with the remaining snow by the lake, forming a tranquil scene. Of course, they remind me of my own childhood, around the age of five or six. Back then, I wasn’t afraid of either extreme cold or heat—I was fearless, until that day.
Past Anqi Lake, about two and a half streets away, is the 309th State Prison in Guocheng. About five minutes’ drive past the prison is Guocheng Airport. I often go to the airport to pick up or drop off people. At first, I was taken there by my parents to greet relatives and friends, and later, when I started driving, I went to pick up family members or my own friends. Once, after picking up my father’s friend from the airport, he was a criminal law expert. He pointed to a two-story red brick building, about the size of one mu, and said to my father, “Many prisons in cities today are overcrowded, but Guocheng doesn’t seem to have this problem. I hear this women’s prison still has empty beds.” My father replied with slight surprise, “This is a prison. How could I have lived here for all these years and not noticed it?” I turned to look as well. That row of buildings looked no different from other buildings, but it was surrounded by a chain-link fence, and behind it stood a watchtower. I had never noticed it before, and even when I did, I didn’t register it in my mind. Now that someone had pointed it out, I suddenly felt an inexplicable fear and a touch of curiosity about those buildings. I wanted to take a closer look, but by then, the car had already driven away, and I couldn’t see it anymore.
Since then, whenever I go to the airport, I can’t help but glance at it, imagining what it’s like inside—its inmates, their lives, their days. Never in a million years did I think that one day I would end up inside, living the life of those days. Time, like a string of beads in an old person’s hands, is counted one by one, coming and going, used to pass the endless hours.