Margaret knew she had to say something when she accepted the award.

"Thank you" is what she said. "Thank you for this."

She returned to her table, which was mercifully empty. It wasn't very long, though, before an enthusiastic Chinese lady sat in the chair across from her.

            “It is such a pleasure to meet you!" the woman told her.

Margaret drank down her martini, and she smiled.

“And you, too.”

It had been six months since the takeover. After the imprisonments and the executions and the land seizures, the people of all the major cities were told that it was time to move on. All businesses were ordered to reopen, and life began to continue in an unfettered manner.

There were no boots stomping on any faces. No public executions. Yes, there were police officers walking the sidewalks with automatic weapons - but most Americans had become accustomed to that a long time ago. What was strange was how indifferent these officers seemed to be towards everyone. There were no speeding tickets. No drug busts. Very few arrests were made. And, when they happened, they were done quickly and quietly.

Some people looked at all of this in a positive light. They didn't feel the need to voice controversial opinions, and they didn't care what happened beyond their own homes and families. They saw this as a Golden Age. They could wander the sidewalk with an open bottle of vodka in their hand, and have sex with hookers in dark alleys without anyone caring.

Others didn't take that rosy view, though. They recognized that arrests were down, but that land seizures and midnight disappearances were still happening. They believed that, while the hammer hadn’t come down yet, a system was being established to ensure that, when it did come down, there would be nothing left to stop it. Or, even worse, that nobody would care to stop it.

And then, of course, there were the wealthy people. For them, life went on just as it had before. Better, actually. Upon joining the Communist Party, they were given unrestricted freedom. They were modern day Dukes and Earls. There was no internal conflict for these fortunate ones. Life was good.

The Chinese colonists were the strangest of all. They weren't part of any government plan or police force. They were just regular people who had arrived after the invasion. They seemed to be completely oblivious to anything that had happened between the time of that invasion and the time of their arrival. They smiled at Americans, and they joked with them, and they spoke to them as though they had been neighbors for years. The idea that they were an occupying force from a conquering nation didn't seem to be an issue for them. People questioned how much of that lack of awareness was real, and how much of it was a cruel form of fun. These discussions were always done quietly in closed rooms, of course.

One thing about these colonists is that they absolutely loved the "New". Having been brought up in a nation that insisted they revere things 3000 years old, it was a great relief to come to a land in which a 200-year-old gun was considered to be an artifact. They especially loved new art. They had no interest in Romantic era paintings of castles and forests, or in Renaissance portraits of strange-looking white babies with giant freaky eyes. 

It was Contemporary Art that they were after. Modern Art. They especially loved sculptures. If an artist were willing to keep her mouth shut, then she could make an incredible amount of money in this environment. And that's just what Margaret had been doing. Right now, she may have wanted to smash her award into this smiling colonist's face. But she focused on the lady's purse instead.

The Chinese woman told her that she was interested in "The Green One".

Margaret looked around the room until she saw that sculpture.

“Poseidon?”

“Poseidon!” Ms. Chen smiled. “The God of the Sea! Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“I studied Western Mythology in school when I was young. I loved the stories. Do you know the Baba Yaga?”

“No.”

“It is Russian mythology. The Baba Yaga was an old lady who cooked children in a . . .  a big pot. A cauldron! She lived in a house that had giant chicken legs. The house walked all around looking for children for the Baba Yaga to eat.”

“That sounds more like a fairy tale than a myth.”

“Maybe so. It’s a good story, though. It could make a good sculpture. The Baba Yaga house?”

“It could.”

“Why did you call that sculpture Poseidon? I don’t see it.”

Margaret asked for another drink.

"I didn’t. I just came up with the name now. It has no name. I just thought you’d pay more if it had a good name.”

The woman laughed. “I'll buy it and call it the Baba Yaga! Is that okay?”

"Hey, darling, you're buying it. Call it what you want."

They worked out a fair price, talked a little more, and then the lady went to close out the deal with Samuel.

Margaret had three more drinks before she left the table. She walked from one group of people to another. She listened to the conversations. The New York scene is so different now, they said. The New York scene isn't very different now, others said. And still others said that the New York Scene is different but the Los Angeles Scene hasn't changed.

She wished that she hadn't been so dismissive of the Chinese woman. She would have liked to have heard some more stories about the Baba Yaga.

“Margaret!”

It was Samuel. He introduced her to an old Chinese couple that were looking to buy one of her sculptures. The man told her which one it was, and asked what it was called. Margaret told them that it was called "The Yaga". They loved the name. When they began talking about money, she waved them off and told them to talk to Samuel.

She began to walk away from them, but then stopped. She grabbed the old Chinese man by the lapel of his coat. "Wait a second.” She balanced herself on his shoulder. She looked into the ground and then she looked at him. "I have just created a new form of art.”

"Yes?" The old man smiled, and he looked at his wife. She had no interest in what was happening here.

"Yes. I call it . . I call it visual art."

“Visual Art?"

“Isn't that what most art is?" Samuel asked.

“Right. Right. What I call it is . . . Illusionary Art. Here’s the idea. I put an idea in your head. A vision. And that’s the art. I take it and I place it in your brain. That's what it is.”

The Chinese man loved this idea.

“So do you have a piece for me?” he asked her.

“Yes. Yes, I do." She put her arm around him. She pulled him close. With the sides of their heads touching, she pointed to a table at the other side of the room. "Over there, at that table. The one where nobody is sitting. There’s a man there now. A big man. A handsome man. He looks like a Norse god. Long beard. The whole thing. He’s by himself. He’s drinking beer. He’s looking around at the party. He’s not impressed. He wants to leave. Do you see him?”

He stared at the table, and then enthusiastically told her that he did.

“And right there. In that group of people. Do you see them? Those ones in a circle. Drinking wine. Right there. You see them?”

"Yes. The real ones."

“Yeah. The real ones. If you want to call them that. In that group of people, there is a plain-looking white guy with jeans and a t-shirt. He’s holding a bottle of whiskey. He’s drinking it as though it were in a mug. But don’t let that fool you. He’s not being boorish or rude. He’s talking with the people. They’re talking art. He’s actually making them a little embarrassed because they’re only pretending to know what they’re talking about. Our guy doesn’t just know the facts about the art. Who painted it or what style and all that. But he has theories about the art. About what it means. And he is sharing these theories with everybody. And a couple of the people – the two younger ones there – they’re getting into this idea and they're contributing. The rest are just listening, though, because they don't want to say something and be thought of as stupid. Do you see them? Do you see him?"

"Yes," the man said. "Yes, I do."

And he did.

“And then over there. There's the last person in my piece. He’s a tall skinny guy. Ridiculous green Mohawk. He has a glass of vodka in each hand. He’s walking from group to group. You can see him everywhere. There. There. There. He’s going to each one, and he’s mocking them all. He just made that lady spill her drink when he snuck up and shouted an insane opinion from behind her. And, over there, I think . . . . he's just burping over and over again. And he's getting in every group. He’s hard to describe. Do you see him, though?”

“Oh, yes! He just took that lady's drink out of her hand and he drank it all down! And then he gave the glass back to her!"

“Yes! That's him! That's him! Now look around you. Look at this room. Can you see them all now? All three of them? Can you see the way that the people are responding to them? The whole room. Now, it’s not all just a bland . . . shitbog. These three people . . . . even the Norseman sitting alone at the table . . . . they've changed the entire scene, haven't they?”

"Yes, they have."

She pulled away from him. The man looked at her artwork for a long time. Then he returned his attention to her. 

“Beautiful," he told her. "That is beautiful work."

He gave her a five-hundred-dollar bill.

“Okay then,” Samuel said. “Let’s go talk about buying the Yaga.”

They left.

The image weakened as Margaret walked to her table. By the time that she sat down, it was gone. It was just these people again.

When approached by a waitress, she asked her to bring a bottle of whiskey.

“A glass?”

“No,” she told her. “Bring me - okay, just bring me a glass. A double, though.”

Maggie drank the whiskey when it was given to her, and she did not leave the table until long after the event had been brought to an end.