Dancing with a devil
- Irena Jurjević
- 11. stu 2025.
- 2 min čitanja
INTEGRITY.
The most important organ in the body.
Dance. The most exalted feeling I have ever experienced.
I’m sitting in the center of Havana, having coffee with the Devil. He’s wearing a white shirt, sleeves casually rolled up. Dark-skinned, muscular — God, what a smile. Well, this is Cuba, after all. We’re the only guests on the terrace of this little restaurant, because it’s ten in the morning — the hour when Havana is just beginning to wake.
I’d been expecting this invitation for coffee. Things had been too good for a while now, and whenever that happens, I know I can expect his Contract. From a black leather bag — old and worn, just like this island—he pulls out a sheet of paper and a pen. The paper is printed on both sides. On one side, in large letters, it says: “Dance with me.”A feeling I never even knew existed until I came to this damned island. Now I understand that I’ve lived my whole life for it.On the other side, in tiny letters, it reads:Stake: “The Integrity of Irena Jurjević.”Below it, a straight line waits for my signature—and Hell’s seal.The Devil leans across the table, close enough for me to catch a whiff of that sweet, unpleasant Pino Silvestre scent. He searches my pupils and murmurs:“Come on, darling. Sign it, and you’ll dance with him every morning and every night. He’ll give you love, passion, and the most beautiful moments of your life. You’ll be his light, his muse—you’ll be his dancer.”We’ve been dancing for two months now, every day.My man, in his black African rumba skirt.I’ve loved him since the day we met.I’ve wanted him since the moment I saw him.The Devil clears his throat softly, pulling me back into the present, and adds:“You know, sweetheart, there’s just one tiny thing—nothing serious, but I’ve got to tell you... your dancer can’t really be entirely yours. There’s another woman in his life. But don’t worry, she’s far away. She won’t get in your way. You’re the one who matters most. She’s just a Shadow.”I look at my companion in white, this strange Havana morning.He sits calmly, reclining in his chair, gazing off into the distance, almost indifferent. He doesn’t seem to be waiting for anything; he looks like a man with no other business at all.Which makes sense—he’s the Devil.The coffee has long gone cold.I breathe deeply, as if that might ground me, bring me back to Myself (that’s what they taught us).It doesn’t help much. Because when I think of the Son Cubano we used to dance—so suave, so suavecito—I feel like I might die right now.“Integrity, you say?” I ask the Devil, a last flicker of hope that I’ve misunderstood.“Yeah,” he waves his hand dismissively, as if brushing away the weight of the word.Damn you, Devil. I understand perfectly. I know what I must do.My soul shatters.I rise from the table—slowly, barely. My legs feel like lead.The iron chair screeches across the tropical terrace as I pull it back.Cuenta, por favor!