I knew his tricks and powers all too well. Darkness was a conjurer. A demon. He would throw blankets over lovers and soil over the dead. Here, in prison, he was busily employed as the most terrible of torturers. By keeping out light, he helped the turnkeys crush our spirits and made it all the more difficult to devise ways to escape. Even in the new cell, where I recovered from my beating, Darkness stood guard from the end of the turnkeys’ night rounds until slivers of morning light were smuggled through my window bars. Asleep, I either dreamed of escape or became a child again. I was reacquainted with Mario the Italian organ grinder, who worked a street corner near where I was born and would play every day except Sundays. Once more, I held out my hands for sweets wrapped in cut-up newspaper and played with wooden toys that other boys had grown out of. I looked into the faces of the mother and father I had never known. I grew up with them. Grew old with them. Placed grandchildren in their loving arms.
