Oryx and Crake (MaddAddam 1)

"Yes, but ..."

"Crake won't know."

And it seemed to be true, Crake didn't know. Maybe he was too mesmerized by her to notice anything; or maybe, thought Jimmy, love really was blind. Or blinding. And Crake loved Oryx, no doubt there; he was almost abject about it. He'd touch her in public, even. Crake had never been a toucher, he'd been physically remote, but now he liked to have a hand on Oryx: on her shoulder, her arm, her small waist, her perfect butt. Mine, mine, that hand was saying.

Moreover, he appeared to trust her, more perhaps than he trusted Jimmy. She was an expert businesswoman, he said. He'd given her a slice of the BlyssPluss trials: she had useful contacts in the pleeblands, through her old pals who'd worked with her at Student Services. For that reason she had to make a lot of trips, here and there around the world. Sex clinics, said Crake. Whorehouses, said Oryx: who better to do the testing?

"Just as long as you don't do any testing on yourself," said Jimmy.

"Oh no, Jimmy. Crake said not to."

"You always do what Crake tells you?"

"He is my boss."

"He tell you to do this?"

Big eyes. "Do what, Jimmy?"

"What you're doing right now."

"Oh Jimmy. You always make jokes."

The times when she was away were hard for Jimmy. He worried about her, he longed for her, he resented her for not being there. When she'd get back from one of her trips, she'd materialize in his room in the middle of the night: she managed to do that no matter what might be on Crake's agenda. First she'd brief Crake, provide him with an account of her activities and their success - how many BlyssPluss Pills, where she'd placed them, any results so far: an exact account, because he was so obsessive. Then she'd take care of what she called the personal area.

Crake's sexual needs were direct and simple, according to Oryx; not intriguing, like sex with Jimmy. Not fun, just work - although she respected Crake, she really did, because he was a brilliant genius. But if Crake wanted her to stay longer on any given night, do it again maybe, she'd make some excuse - jet lag, a headache, something plausible. Her inventions were seamless, she was the best poker-faced liar in the world, so there would be a kiss goodbye for stupid Crake, a smile, a wave, a closed door, and the next minute there she would be, with Jimmy.

How potent was that word. With.

He could never get used to her, she was fresh every time, she was a casketful of secrets. Any moment now she would open herself up, reveal to him the essential thing, the hidden thing at the core of life, or of her life, or of his life - the thing he was longing to know. The thing he'd always wanted. What would it be?

"What went on in that garage, anyway?" said Jimmy. He couldn't leave her alone about her earlier life, he was driven to find out. No detail was too small for him in those days, no painful splinter of her past too tiny. Perhaps he was digging for her anger, but he never found it. Either it was buried too deeply, or it wasn't there at all. But he couldn't believe that. She wasn't a masochist, she was no saint.

They were in Jimmy's bedroom, lying on the bed together with the digital TV on, hooked into his computer, some copulation Web site with an a

nimal component, a couple of well-trained German shepherds and a double-jointed ultra-shaved albino tattooed all over with lizards. The sound was off, it was just the pictures: erotic wallpaper.

They were eating Nubbins from one of the takeout joints in the nearest mall, with the soyafries and the salad. Some of the salad leaves were spinach, from the Rejoov greenhouses: no pesticides, or none that were admitted to. The other leaves were a cabbage splice - giant cabbage trees, continuous producers, very productive. The stuff had a whiff of sewage to it, but the special dressing drowned that out.

"What garage, Jimmy?" said Oryx. She wasn't paying attention. She liked to eat with her fingers, she hated cutlery. Why put a big chunk of sharp-edged metal into your mouth? She said it made the food taste like tin.

"You know what garage," he said. "The one in San Francisco. That creep. That geek who bought you, flew you over, got his wife to say you were the maid."

"Jimmy, why do you dream up such things? I was never in a garage." She licked her fingers, tore a Nubbin into bite-sized bits, fed one of the bits to Jimmy. Then she let him lick her fingers for her. He ran his tongue around the small ovals of her nails. This was the closest she could get to him without becoming food: she was in him, or part of her was in part of him. Sex was the other way around: while that was going on, he was in her. I'll make you mine, lovers said in old books. They never said, I'll make you me.

"I know it was you," Jimmy said. "I saw the pictures."

"What pictures?"

"The so-called maid scandal. In San Francisco. Did that creepy old geezer make you have sex?"

"Oh Jimmy." A sigh. "So that is what you have in mind. I saw that, on TV. Why do you worry about a man like that? He was so old he was almost dead."

"No, but did he?"

"No one made me have sex in a garage. I told you."

"Okay, revision: no one made you, but did you have it anyway?"