The Power(79)

‘Any man who does not have a sister, mother, wife or daughter, or other relative, to register him must report to the police station, where he will be assigned a work detail and shackled to other men for the protection of the public. Any man who breaks these laws will be subject to capital punishment. This applies also to foreign journalists and other workers.’

Looks pass between the men in the room; there are about a dozen, foreign journalists who’ve been here since it was a grim staging post in the business of human trafficking. The women try to look horrified but at the same time comradely, comforting. ‘Don’t worry,’ they seem to say. ‘This can’t last long, but while it does we’ll help you out.’ Several of the men fold their arms protectively over their chests.

‘No man may take money or other possessions out of the country.’

The Minister for Justice turns the page. There is a long list of proclamations printed close together in small type.

Men are no longer permitted to drive cars.

Men are no longer permitted to own businesses. Foreign journalists and photographers must be employed by a woman.

Men are no longer permitted to gather together, even in the home, in groups larger than three, without a woman present.

Men are no longer permitted to vote – because their years of violence and degradation have shown that they are not fit to rule or govern.

A woman who sees a man flouting one of these laws in public is not only permitted but required to discipline him immediately. Any woman who fails in this duty will be considered an enemy of the state, an accessory to the crime, one who attempts to undermine the peace and harmony of the nation.

There are several pages of minor adjustments to these rulings, explanations of what constitutes ‘being accompanied by a woman’ and leniencies in case of extreme medical emergency because, after all, they are not monsters. The press conference becomes more and more quiet as the list is read out.

The Minister for Justice finishes reading her list and calmly sets the papers down in front of her. Her shoulders are very relaxed, her face impassive.

‘That is all,’ she says. ‘No questions.’

In the bar, Hooper from the Washington Post says, ‘I don’t care. I’m leaving.’

He’s said this several times already. He pours himself another whisky and plops three ice cubes into it, swirls them round hard and makes his case again:

‘Why the fuck should we stay somewhere that we actually can’t do our jobs, when there are dozens of places we can? Something’s about to break out in Iran, I’m pretty sure. I’ll go there.’

‘And when something breaks out in Iran,’ drawls Semple of the BBC, ‘what do you think will happen to the men?’

Hooper shakes his head. ‘Not in Iran. Not like this. They’re not going to change their beliefs overnight, cede everything to the women.’

‘You do remember,’ continues Semple, ‘that they turned overnight when the Shah fell and the Ayatollah came to power? You do remember that it happens that quickly?’

There’s a moment of quiet.

‘Well, what do you suggest?’ says Hooper. ‘Give up everything? Go back home and become a gardening editor? I can see you doing that. Flak jacket in the herbaceous borders.’

Semple shrugs. ‘I’m staying. I’m a British citizen, under the protection of Her Majesty. I’ll obey the laws, within reason, and report on that.’

‘What are you expecting to report? What it’s like sitting in a hotel room waiting for a woman to come and get you?’

Semple sticks his bottom lip out. ‘It won’t get any worse than this.’

At the table next to them, Tunde is listening. He also has a large whisky, though he’s not drinking it. The men are getting drunk and shouting. The women are quiet, watching the men. There is something vulnerable and desperate in the men’s display – he thinks the women are looking with compassion.

One says, loud enough for Tunde to be able to hear, ‘We’ll take you anywhere you want to go. Listen, we don’t believe in this nonsense. You can tell us where you want to go. It’ll be just the same as it’s always been.’

Hooper clasps Semple by the sleeve, saying, ‘You have to leave. First plane out of here and screw it all.’

One of the women says, ‘He’s right. What’s the point of getting killed over this piss-pot of a place?’

Tunde walks slowly to the front desk. He waits for an elderly Norwegian couple to pay their bill – there’s a taxi outside loading up their bags. Like most people from wealthy nations, they’re getting out of the city while they can. At last, after querying each item on the mini-bar receipt and the level of the local taxes, they leave.

There is only one member of staff behind the desk. Grey is colonizing his hair in clumps – a chunk here and there, the rest dark and thick and tightly curled. He’s perhaps in his sixties, surely a trusted staff member with years of experience.

Tunde smiles. An easy, we’re-in-this-together smile.

‘Strange days,’ he says.

The man nods. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘You’ve planned what you’re going to do?’

The man shrugs.

‘You have family who’ll take you in?’

‘My daughter has a farm three hours west of here. I will go to her.’