By Mahmoud al Wardani, April 26, 2025
When Madame May entered the bank, the manager rushed to welcome her into his office and ordered coffee for her, as she was one of their esteemed clients and already past eighty-four. At that time, banks couldn’t release more than two hundred dollars per depositor, having stolen people’s life savings in broad daylight. So, what did Madame May do?! She shattered the office’s glass with the cane she leaned on, smashed the cups and saucers, and then told the manager, on her way out, to deduct the damages from her account!
This scene takes place in Najwa Barakat’s latest novel May vanishes (Ghaybat May), published by Dar Al Adab in Lebanon. By then, the Lebanese pound had collapsed, the port had exploded, people’s deposits had been looted, and Beirut—once vibrant—was staggering.
Barakat doesn’t merely write the life story of Madame May over eighty-four years, but also, at the same time, narrates our own collective story—especially its final moments. Just minutes later, the car stops in front of her building and takes her to the hospital after she has completely lost her mind. And yet, she walks out with her head held high, smiling as if waving to a cheering audience in farewell, accompanied by Yousef the doorman, in whom she had come to trust.
Barakat chose a narrative structure that allows her to get close to May’s transformations, fate, and the wounds that carved deep into her soul and ultimately destroyed her—precisely at the peak of her success and fame as a stage actress. She is seen memorizing her role, embodying Frida Kahlo, specifically while writing her final letter to her unfaithful lover, the brilliant Mexican muralist Diego Rivera.
Beautiful novels, of course, cannot be retold or summarized. There’s no need for that. I’ll only point out that the first section is told by Madame May herself at age eighty-four—a mother of twins living in America with whom she has had no real connection for years, since the time she gave birth to them during a terrifying episode, lost inside a bloody black hole. This is immediately followed by the second section, narrated by the other May—May Najjar, the actress who had lived with another traitor, far inferior to Rivera, yet more despicable. Her tragedy with him ended when she set his bed on fire after years of being treated for nervous breakdowns. She had gotten him drunk while he slept to take her revenge and kill him—but he survived. May, on the other hand, fell into a seven-year disappearance, waking up having forgotten everything that had happened.
The novel’s structure is, in fact, cohesive. Both parts are written with exquisite sensitivity, and we feel we are in the presence of two women, not just one—both lost. The only moment when Madame May stood straight-backed and relieved was the very moment she completely lost her mind—and that was the end.
Lastly, a note on the third section, narrated by Yousef. This part completes the stage and prepares it for Madame May’s radiant exit. We see her gracefully descend from the ninth-floor elevator with Yousef, boarding the hospital car with a near-smile. Yousef, the Syrian doorman of a tall Beirut building (in the Beirut that once was), reveals a new face of our days. Perhaps the journey May insisted on taking with him to the port, in the aftermath of its explosion, was the penultimate scene of a collapsing world.
May vanishes is a beautiful novel—low in tone and voice. It is tight and well-crafted despite the rich detail. In fact, it is truly a novel of details.
