Hamid Oqabi is a Yemeni poet, writer, visual artist, and film and theatre director based in France since 2001. In 2018, he founded the Arab European Forum for Cinema and Theatre in Paris, which has hosted over 500 events and around fifty in-person workshops. He has produced eight short films and three features, curated ten exhibitions, and published around thirty books, including three poetry collections.

In the garden of a tourist resort in Ras Al Khaimah, the final session of a conference dedicated to myths and legends took place. For three days and nights, I listened to ancient Emirati and Gulf folk tales at this event centered on Emirati heritage and folklore. I noticed that many young men and women were drawn to this genre of narration; some have begun creating their own content for social media, while others are developing their ideas into cinematic works.

That evening, I met an elegant woman. We had been exchanging glances since the start of the event, but I hadn't summoned enough courage to introduce myself. Her features suggested she wasn't Emirati; perhaps she was a resident or a visiting guest.

The conference drew to a close, ending with all its tales and sessions. I gathered my things to head back to my room; I had tonight and tomorrow remaining before my return to Paris tomorrow night, just after midnight.

She caught me by surprise—smiling, she extended her right hand to greet me. "We've shared so many glances and smiles," she said, "I was waiting for you to make the first move." I reached out and took her hand.

I stammered in my reply, "Welcome... my apologies, I'm somewhat shy."

She held my hand gently; I felt its softness and tenderness, as the scent of her perfume washed over me. "I'm Aisha," she said. "I used to live in Paris, but now I work here in theatre. I only attended the evening sessions of the conference; I couldn't make it to all the activities."

I felt her clasp my hand, lingering in the handshake before she softly let go. She took a step closer. "I know you; I've read your work. I might visit Paris soon. I left after my divorce and came here seeking a new world, a new life—and yes, some money. The Gulf countries are full of opportunities; they are the new Europe."

Trying to shake off my awkwardness, I replied: "Indeed, you're right. These countries know their path and their goals. Some of their initiatives are already flourishing, especially in the arts and literature."

She nodded in agreement and said: "If you have no other plans, we could head out. How about a stroll in the heart of nature? There's a magical forest nearby—peaceful, with a gentle breeze. I even have a bottle of Bordeaux in my bag. It will be a night to remember, and afterwards, I'll be your guest, or you can be mine."

She pulled me gently by the hand as if my consent were already given. I followed; her intoxicating scent was enough to make any man lose his mind and succumb to her. We walked, leaving the hotel gardens behind, wandering through a resort shrouded in silence. Dim, soft lights glowed from small floor lamps like ancient lanterns. I lost all track of time and distance until we reached a clearing that felt like a forest. We sat on a wooden bench; she placed my bag on the ground, drew the bottle from hers, and handed it to me along with the opener. I took them, my eyes drifting to her left hand.

(1) Umm Al-Duwais is a well-known figure in the folklore of the United Arab Emirates, described as a dangerous, shape-shifting jinn. She often appears as a beautiful woman who lures men with her scent, only to then reveal her true, monstrous face and kill them. The legend traditionally serves as a warning against infidelity and vanity, and as a moral deterrent.

"I cut myself with the knife while chopping onions," she said. "It was painful at first, but I don't feel a thing now."

I uncorked the bottle and handed it back to her. She took a drink and passed it to me; I took a swig, feeling the initial sting of the wine, but it was smooth and delightful. Perhaps a fine wine only truly shines when shared with a companion as fragrant and beautiful as Aisha.

We drank slowly, discussing the mythical figures presented at the conference. Aisha caught me off guard when she asked: "Don't you feel that some tales exaggerate the brutality of Umm Al-Duwais (1)? Don't you think there could be something beautiful about her—that she isn't just a hideous ghoul (2)?"

"Perhaps the folk imagination birthed this ghoul for a moral purpose," I replied. "As some see it, she was meant to deter men from embarking on what we might now call 'daring adventures.' Back then, mindsets were different; a young man was expected to remain 'virtuous' until his wedding night. Umm Al-Duwais exists across the Gulf, Iraq, and Yemen—the name and details shift, but her role remains the same. Most mythical figures are woven into the heritage of all peoples, from East to West."

(2) A ghoul is a shape-shifting creature from Arab mythology that threatens travellers in the desert as a corpse-eating demon.

Aisha shook her head, smiling. "For a man to find a beautiful woman—one with a captivating scent and a body radiating beauty, who grants him an astonishing, unparalleled pleasure—that is a luck few men ever know. Death, afterward, is no loss. Besides, to be devoured by a beautiful woman is far better than dying and being eaten by worms... It's a stroke of luck, wouldn't you say?"

A cold shiver ran down my spine. Aisha drew closer, pressing me to drink. It struck me then that I hadn't seen her legs once; my gaze had been framed like a Hollywood medium shot, from the knees up. She took my right hand, stroking it with her soft palm. Her perfume seemed to intensify, filling the air and enveloping me from every side. She lit a cigarette and shared it with me. I was acutely aware of her body as she leaned in, her shoulder deliberately brushing against mine from time to time.

(3) Sa'alah is a shape-shifter. As soon as she has assaulted a man, she transforms into a hideous, foul-smelling creature.

Then, she asked a sudden, jarring question: "If... if, for instance, you were caught between the Sa'alah (3) and Umm Al-Duwais, and they fought over you... if you were forced to be the victim of one, which would you choose?"

I smiled, despite the bizarre nature of the question. "They say the Sa'alah is a shapeshifting sorceress; once she's had her way with a man, she turns into a hideous, foul-smelling creature. I've never heard of Umm Al-Duwais transforming like that. I don't know if devouring a human adds to her beauty, her scent, or her years. Surely, one would choose to be consumed by a beautiful, fragrant woman, contributing to her radiance—though I'd hope it wouldn't sharpen her bloodlust."

Aisha laughed and leaned in even closer. "Your logic is charming—to be a sacrifice for the sake of beauty. You truly appreciate it, don't you? Tell me, do you find me beautiful?"

"The fairest of them all," I replied. "Beyond beautiful... your fragrance pours into my very soul. I will carry the memory of this scent for the rest of my life."

"And do you think," she asked, "that your life will be a long one?"

"To be honest, I've seen death at every turn, especially since the wars began in my homeland, Yemen. Sometimes I see it as a friend; other times, I pray it comes as a merciful angel. I don't fear death itself, but I hope it is gentle—taking souls softly, sparing them the agony of a cruel end."

She whispered, "They say that Umm Al-Duwais has a hand like a razor-sharp scythe. With one stroke, the head is gone. She is swifter and more skilled than any executioner in history. Her death is gentle, exquisite, and so fast that pain has no time to linger. It's quite marvelous, isn't it?"

I tried to pull away subtly, but she placed her right hand on my shoulder and shifted to face me directly, our legs pressing against one another. She seemed to crave an embrace, a kiss. Beads of sweat broke out on my forehead.

She whispered: "You said my perfume tempts you. You are a poet, and a poet can surely feel the desires of a woman overflowing with boundless longing."

I remained silent, frozen.

She leaned in with agonizing slowness, stealing a few kisses. A surge of heat coursed through me, from the soles of my feet to the crown of my head. I lost all sense of time and place. I stood there, smiling like one possessed. Before those first kisses, I had felt a violent tremor at her obsession with Umm Al-Duwais, as if she were trying to romanticize death at her own hands. I prayed she would drop the subject of the ghoul and tell me more about Aisha.

It was then that I noticed the pale radiance of her thighs. Her skirt was short, reaching mid-thigh, but she wore long stockings that veiled her knees and legs. Then I saw her shoes—strange, box-like things, unlike any footwear I had ever seen.

Noticing my stare, she took my hand and guided it to her thigh. Her intoxicating scent intensified; the more she relaxed, the more I felt my sanity slipping away, drowning in a trance I cannot put into words.

"I don't like you looking at my feet," she said. "I was in an accident long ago and have to wear these orthopedic shoes. My feet are normal... or are you afraid I might be Umm Al-Duwais?"

I laughed at the chilling turns our conversation kept taking. "You keep bringing her up," I said. "They say she has one foot like a donkey's and the other like a sickle. It's impossible for a body as enchanting as yours to harbor such a deformity."

She pressed herself against me again, a deluge of desire sweeping us toward the heights of pleasure. Right then, I saw her begin to unwrap the medical bandage from her left hand. Suddenly, the soft lights flickered out. The wind began to hiss through the branches, the rustling of leaves mingling with strange, indistinct sounds. Her perfume grew aggressive, overpowering, and a faint chill began to creep up my feet.

She whispered: "Let us sink into our world. Forget who you are. Don't ask. Don't look at my left hand—I will keep it behind my back. I chose you from all men; I made myself visible only to you. My beauty will bloom tonight, and my fragrance will conquer the air. Tonight, I shall sing for a thousand and one nights until I find a man who worships beauty—loves it, sanctifies it, and offers himself as a sacrifice for its sake."

Every whisper sent me tumbling into another realm. It was as if she were declaring, "I am Umm Al-Duwais, and you are my prey." And it was as if I had accepted my fate. My longing for her embrace made me forget everything that was about to unfold.

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