Live Encounters Arab Poetry & Writing 16th Anniversary Volume Five
November- December 2025
The Magician, stories by Mounir Otaiba.
Translated from Arabic by Dr. Salwa Gouda.
The Magician
He never entered my village. He would appear in it. He would suddenly emerge from somewhere. For no one ever mentioned seeing him walking through the village streets, arriving or leaving. He would appear atop a pile of dirt from a forgotten brickwork, located next to the large threshing floor where wedding canopies, funeral tents, cele-brations, and the village market were set up every Sunday. He would appear on market day, at high noon. He stood upright, his tall stature looming. His bulging arm muscles. The hair on his chest is stiff like sharp wires. Wearing a cotton undershirt with straps. And a stained black pair of trousers. Scattered white hair in the desert of his baldness. A thick, grey beard dangling onto his chest. And a booming voice that would scream at the market crowd to turn to him. They didn’t need his shouting. They would gather around him spontaneously the moment he appeared on the dirt pile.
Some said he used to appear every Sunday. Others said he appeared once a month. Some insisted he appeared once every century. He would look at the villagers, who had all gathered around him without a single person missing. He would reach his hand into the air, fetching a bouquet of local roses from somewhere in the air. He would throw the bouquet upwards. Bird droppings, foul-smelling, would scatter over the heads. He would laugh from the depths of his being and disappear. While we tried in vain to wipe the bird droppings from our heads… We threw ourselves into the Canal. We held our heads under the village tap… but it remained stuck to our hair.
He wouldn’t appear in the market again until the people of my village had grown accustomed to the sight and smell of the bird droppings, until they had forgotten them completely. He would scream. They would gather around him. He would reach his hand into the air, fetching a bouquet of intensely green cactus. He would throw the cactus bouquet upwards. Colorful paper streamers would scatter over the heads. The villagers would look at each other and laugh until they fell to the ground. Then they would crack jokes about themselves. But when they tried to remove the streamers, they wouldn’t come off. Some tried to cut them. Or saw them off. Or even burn them. But they all failed. So, they left them in place. And they carried on with their lives, ignoring them. Until they forgot them completely. And could no longer see them.
Then he appeared, clapping this time. His features hinted at suppressed anger. His hands were clapping as if they were killing some creature trapped between them. He looked at our faces gathered around him with contempt. With uncharacteristic speed, like someone wanting to rid himself of a heavy burden on his heart, he reached his hand into the air, and we saw a white jasmine stick. He threw it into the air. And rusty manacles clamped around our hands and feet. He disappeared, each of us trying to undo our manacles. Failure met every attempt at cutting, breaking, or melting them. So, we ignored them until we no longer felt their presence.
Then he appeared, screaming violently. His screams this time were like the cries of a drowning man, or a curse of doom. The muscles in his arms were twitching. The hair on his chest seemed like pins pricking him forcefully. His features were clouded with a divine, or a terrifying demonic, anger. With the slowness of one bidding farewell to life, he moved amidst our gathered crowds. He looked into our faces as if memorizing them. He deliberately stared with his wide, intrusive eyes into everyone’s eyes. When he looked into my eyes, I felt stripped of all my clothes. And when he stared more intently, I felt he was pulling the soul from my limbs. I almost fell to the ground when he moved his gaze to the person next to me.
Hours passed, us like worm-eaten wooden statues staring at him unconsciously. He finished his round of staring. He stood in the center of the circle. He reached his hand into the air. I stared at the green veins bulging on his long fingers. They seemed hesitant, as if he didn’t want to play his game this time. His hand was trying to pull something from the air. It seemed to be pulling something heavy. He stretched out his other hand to pull with both. We gasped when we saw a dry mulberry leaf in his hands. I read great fear in his eyes, mixed with an even greater cruelty. He crumpled the mulberry leaf in his fist. He looked at us all with one long glance. I felt as if something carried me kilometers away from the earth then let me go to fall suddenly. He didn’t disappear suddenly this time as he usually appeared, but rose upwards gradually, our eyes following him in astonishment, and before he disappeared like a mass of fire exploding in the air, he spat once, its spray scattering on our faces.
He opened his fist, and the crumbled mulberry leaf debris fell onto our heads and shoulders.
We didn’t try to wipe his spit from our faces, for a universal horror preoccupied us; the mulberry leaf debris turned into snakes, mice, cats, wolves, hyenas, savage ants, flies with huge wings, and other animals I didn’t know, riding on our shoulders. Each of us felt terror from their neighbor and ran away from them. Then they felt terror from what was on their own shoulders and ran towards their neighbor to help get rid of it. Days, months, or long years later, we grew accustomed to what was on our shoulders, no longer felt it, and forgot to wipe the spit from our faces.
Entering the Text
A black raven pecked at my heart when I heard the notification of a new chat message. I opened the message, and the madness began.
My friend (Hossam) was congratulating me on my new story, especially the boldly designed finale scene, which took up the entire fourth page of the text. I was puzzled by the word ‘bold,’ and surprised by the existence of a fourth page in a story I remembered being less than three pages long.
I usually send any new narrative text of mine to four friends before publishing it; sometimes their opinions help me make revisions that improve it. I doubted myself, opened the text: three pages, and nothing in it was bold! A story that plays with language and symbolism: a young man with night blindness watches his neighbor in the opposite apartment, who dances for herself behind curtains in a dimly lit room. The story ends with his wish to meet her and his doubt about the possibility of that wish coming true.
Hossam sent me a (Word) file containing the story, after sending an (emoticon) of a face with a long protruding tongue; he thought I was playing a trick on him. I opened the file quickly; the file had four pages! I jumped to the fourth page; it contained a scene I was sure I hadn’t written! The young man brings a wide wooden plank, over four meters long—the narrator didn’t specify where he found it? Or how did he get it into his room? Or how he laid it between his window and the neighbor’s window—but he walked across it like a skilled circus tightrope walker, reached the other window, and jumped into his neighbor’s room while wondering what he would find inside!
(Khaled) didn’t give me time to think about this scene, or how it got into my story?! He sent me the text file I had sent him, with a comment that increased my confusion: “The final scene in the text is next-level genius, boss!”. I opened the file; it was five pages! The neighbor was a stunning beauty, wearing a light, short, sleeveless nightgown. She was dancing to the tune of the song (“You Are My Life”). It seemed she was waiting for the young man. She took him in her arms, danced with him until the music ended, then they fell onto the bed, merging into moments filled with eroticism. I closed the computer, my head exploding with astonishment!
I went to the bathroom, took off my clothes, and stood under the shower, hoping the cold water would calm the heat I felt, which was rapidly spreading from my brain to the rest of my limbs. I returned to my room having calmed down a little. I took a deep breath in through my nose and exhaled through my mouth. I felt somewhat relieved. I started thinking about what had happened. It seemed (Hossam and Khaled) had agreed to play a big prank on me, but they don’t even write stories in the first place, and the written scenes are in my style! So where did they come from?!
I opened the computer apprehensively. I found a message from (Mahfouz). The message was shocking! (Mahfouz) doesn’t sugarcoat things and is blunt in expressing his opinions, but I never imagined he would one day say to me: “Fear God, Mounir! These stories will land you in hell. You are in the post-porn stage!”.
I opened the file Mahfouz sent me. The young man and the girl didn’t leave the room for many long days and nights! The narrator didn’t justify how they could stay like that without food, drink, or going to the bathroom to relieve themselves?! And he didn’t mention anything about the apartment the girl lived in; was anyone with her? Or did she live alone? All that concerned the narrator was the details of the girl’s and the young man’s bodies, and the details of the sexual relationship between them. There were several explicit pornographic scenes with no artistic justification. I forgave Mahfouz; I couldn’t finish reading it.
The doorbell of my apartment saved me; it was annoying—it seemed someone had placed their finger on the bell and hadn’t lifted it. My wife was in the living room, busy with my young daughter. I hurried to open the door; I was keen to escape from my studies. I saw her in front of me! The neighbor from the text! I wasn’t preoccupied with how she came to my apartment. I was preoccupied with the little girl she was carrying! It seemed she was only a few days old, even though there was nothing in the woman’s face or body to suggest she had just given birth.
The woman said in a voice with a roughness that didn’t suit the softness of her beautiful features: “This girl is yours! My young neighbor refuses to acknowledge her, and I don’t want her.” I didn’t think; panic made me shut the door in her face. My wife looked at me, our eyes met. I opened the door again, she was still standing, her hands outstretched, offering me the child. I closed the door again, hurried to my room, pursued by my wife’s voice asking who was at the door.
It was (Karima), my friend to whom I had sent the text. The file sent from her informed me that the relationship between the young man and the neighbor had resulted in that little girl, and that the young man had disappeared from the neighbor’s room as if he had evaporated. The narrator didn’t justify anything in the text; he—only—described the scenes and presented seemingly illogical outcomes, as if he couldn’t be questioned about what he does!
For long hours, I locked myself in the room with the key and didn’t respond to my wife’s calls for lunch or dinner. I was reading the text sent from me, and the texts sent from my friends. The little girl was growing up, and her mother was trying to prove she was mine; because the young man was gone without a trace. The story was evolving from one file to another every time I opened it. And in a moment of inspiration that doesn’t happen often, I deleted all the files except the file of the original text. Then I converted the file from (Word) format to (PDF) format. I felt extremely tired, I felt like a murderer whose conscience suddenly awoke but he suppressed it. I closed the computer, tried to doze off a little, dreaming that the new format had frozen the text in its original state.
© Mounir Otaiba
Mounir Otaiba is a prolific and influential Egyptian writer, critic, and cultural figure known for his extensive body of work spanning novels, short stories, flash fiction, poetry, and literary criticism. He holds several key positions, including Founder and Director of the Narratologies Lab at the Bibliotheca Alexandrina and editor-in-chief for major publication series. His impact extends beyond writing through radio and TV contributions, and his projects like the “Report on the State of Egyptian Narrative.” The recipient of numerous prestigious awards, including the State Encouragement Award, his work is studied internationally, translated into multiple languages, and he is recognized as one of Egypt’s leading cultural personalities.
Dr Salwa Gouda is an accomplished Egyptian literary translator, critic, and academic affiliated with the English Language and Literature Department at Ain Shams University. Holding a PhD in English literature and criticism, Dr. Gouda pursued her education at both Ain Shams University and California State University, San Bernardino. She has authored several academic works, including Lectures in English Poetry and Introduction to Modern Literary Criticism, among others. Dr. Gouda also played a significant role in translating The Arab Encyclopedia for Pioneers, a comprehensive project featuring poets, philosophers, historians, and literary figures, conducted under the auspices of UNESCO. Recently, her poetry translations have been featured in a poetry anthology published by Alien Buddha Press in Arizona, USA. Her work has also appeared in numerous international literary magazines, further solidifying her contributions to the field of literary translation and criticism.