"Echizen was right," Fuji said. "This isn't at all like New York City."
He had been silent for an unprecedented forty-five minutes, lying prone on the rear bench of the motorboat with his hand trailing over the side, not quite brushing the surface of the water. Tezuka had begun to assume he'd fallen asleep.
"Of course not," he said, reeled in his bait, and recast.
Cayuga Lake glittered under the sun, the horizon defined by darkly verdant, forested slopes. Toward the northwest the water extended until it met the sky in an undifferentiated blue haze. There were white sails in the distance.
The same light rippled in the bucket at the bottom of the boat, water lapping at the plastic sides with each minute rise and fall of the waves, like a miniaturized version of the lake. Within it something shifted, gleaming darkly, and fell motionless again.
"Isn't Atobe in New York this week?" Fuji said. "You should call him. Get him to come up for the weekend."
"You can't mean that seriously." Once he had accompanied Atobe on a fly fishing expedition. The man's entire attitude changed once his boots were in the water, but with the hullabaloo that went before it was a wonder he didn't frighten the trout permanently from its run.
Fuji considered, and smiled. "No, I suppose I don't." He tapped the side of the bucket. "We should throw these back."
"We won't have anything to eat tonight if you do."
"We still have a few sandwiches left," said Fuji. "And potato chips. And juice."
Silence.
"Sport for sport's sake, surely?"
Still Tezuka said nothing. Fuji lifted the bucket by the handle and heaved the contents over the side. There was a splash – a flash of something dark – a couple of distinct plops.
"You've scared the rest of them off," said Tezuka. Fuji sat back down, brushing his hands against his life jacket.
"Not my fault if news travels fast," he said.