The Hurricane

I close my eyes. 

My heart breaks when I see boxer Rubin The Hurricane Carter. He had spent most of his life in prison. Wrongly convicted for a triple homicide alongside John Artis in 1967, and then again in a new trial in 1976, he fought for many years to prove his innocence. He once was a champion of the world, even if he had never received a trophy while fighting on a ring.

Mr Carter wrote his first book, describing his life and boxing career, while still in prison. It was his plea and a weapon at the same time; his final round. This last fight for his freedom, the one he fought without gloves, lasted almost 20 years. Mr Carter was freed in November 1985. The case was closed in 1988. Sadly, the racial injustice in one form or another continues to this day. 

I have a thought: we rarely, if ever, learn from history.

I keep my eyes closed to see more. I envision a trip to Canada that never came to be. I witness that moment when I pass my gloves, the red ones, to Mr Carter so that he leaves his signature on them.

My body tightens and I open my eyes.

Without Mr Carter, there would have been no Hurricane in my life. Gratitude mixed with regret still boils inside my veins; the same gratitude I have never had a chance to express in person. 

And I never will. 

Because Mr Carter died 10 months ago. And all I have left now is a book tied with a small red ribbon, a thoughtful gift from Glyn, a close friend of mine. The book is titled “The sixteenth round. From number 1 contender to number 45472”. I am simultaneously excited and frighted to open it.

I close my eyes. This time I see Denzel Washington, one of my favourite actors. I watched all of his films at least twice. Three times, at least. Maybe even four. In 1999 Mr Washington portrayed a character of Rubin Carter in the film titled “The Hurricane”, directed by Norman Jewison. A year later, Mr Washington received the nomination for the Academy Award for this role. That same year, a young woman I was back then, watched her favourite actor in a new film and got deeply touched by the story of Mr Carter. 

I open my eyes.

I walk toward a wooden wine box with Grand Cru Classe engraved on its side, where, together with my partner, we keep our vinyl records. I look for a 7-inch single and put it on. I sit down in an armchair in front of the fireplace and I allow the heat to reach me.

I close my eyes. 

I do not have to see anything now. I just listen. Bob Dylan’s voice fills the room. Here comes the story of a Hurricane. The man the authorities came to blame for something that he never done, put in a prison cell but one time he could-a been the champion of the world. 

I have studied Mr Dylan’s lyrics, which I call poems, since I was about 12-ish years old. This poem is one of my favourites. Mr Dylan is Mark’s favourite musician. That’s not quite true. Mr Dylan is Mark’s obsession. He is his inspiration, his North Star; his source of identity. 

Mr Dylan, alongside Muhammad Ali and others, tried to help Rubin Carter get out of prison in the mid-1970s. Mr Dylan’s visit to Mr Carter’s cell in prison was the inspiration for a protest song, “The Hurricane”, first released in 1975.

A blow of a cold wind interrupts the steady heat from the fireplace. I keep my eyes closed. I can hear Mark approaching. He sings alongside Mr Dylan. How can life of such a man be in the palm of some fool’s hand? To see him obviously framed couldn’t help but make me feel ashamed to live in a land, where justice is a game. Mark is quite good. They both are. Especially when they sing together.

Mark kisses my forehead and asks me how my day was. I open my eyes. I smile and nod. He takes his jacket off and puts his scarf around my arms.

There is a harmonica on a small wooden table near the fire place. Mark picks it up and starts playing alongside Mr Dylan. I don’t like harmonica that much. It can hit notes that are not just sharp, they actually hurt. But I do like to watch Mark performing his shows in front of me. For me. Just for me.

I look at him and no longer see my Sweetheart. I now see Mark, a winemaker. For years he has been making wines all over the world, but his heart has always belonged with Roussillon, a wine region in Southern France. Down there, he is known as “a king of Grenache” because of his love to this grape variety and the wines he makes from it. To his friends, however, he is simply Mark, the Hurricane. Yes, The Hurricane. No. I did not know this when I met him a couple of years ago. I think this coincidence belongs fully to the Universe. 

The song ends. Mark puts the vinyl back on and leaves the room, singing. He goes to the barn, where our wine is stored. I can feel a freezing air entering the room through the kitchen. I tighten his scarf around my neck and move closer to the fire.

I close my eyes.

A minute or two later, I hear the wine cork pop and for some reason it feels disproportionately loud. 

I like those lazy winter evenings, when we find each other after work, when I sit down in front of the fire and Mark cooks dinner for us. I know, I just know that at some point he will bring me a glass of wine to taste blind. I don’t think I ever told him how much I love and appreciate this. 

With my eyes still closed, still leaning in toward the fire, I suddenly catch the aroma of wine coming from the glass that Mark brings to my nose. “You know this one?” he asks, without asking. “I know you know that I know” I answer and I open my eyes. I take the glass in my hand and I swirl the wine. Mark leaves the room.

The Hurricane was among the wines I have tasted when I visited France privately for the first time. I chose it because of its name, The Hurricane. The label was designed in a Hollywood-style: the names of everyone involved in the making of this wine appeared on the label, just as they would in the end credits or on a film poster. It was over a year ago. I said to Mark, who at the time was just a friend of mine (and my favourite winemaker), that his wine reminded me of my Hurricane multiverse: the movie with Mr Washington, the story of a wrongly convicted man, Mr Carter, my idol. I even sung a few lines of Mr Dylan’s song that day. Mark just smiled. 

So much can change in a year and a half. And still some things remain unchanged forever.

I take a sip of the Hurricane and I enjoy the fruit flavours that fill my mouth. I pick up the Sixteenth Round. I look in The Hurricane’s eyes. I open the first page and smile at the dedication that Glyn left for me: To Ela, enjoy the Hurricane. 

Then I open the last page. 

“Now the only chance I have is in appealing directly to you, the people, and showing you the wrongs that have yet to be righted — the injustice that has been done to me. For the first time in my entire existence I’m saying that I need some help. Otherwise, there will be no more tomorrow for me: no more freedom, (…) no more Rubin—no more Carter. Only the Hurricane. And after him, there is no more.”

I do, wholeheartedly, enjoy The Hurricane.

Editorial Note: First published in January 2015 in Polish, then republished in English: “The Hurricane, from the prison to the most amazing wine I have ever tasted”. This story is a recollection of real experiences. It has been fictionalised for narrative purposes.
Credits: fragments of the song titled “The Hurricane” by Bob Dylan, fragment from the book “The sixteenth round. From number 1 contender to number 45472” by Rubin The Hurricane Carter.