‘Just one, please.’
Rina smiled at him. ‘My daughter loves these,’ she said as she bit into the ice cream, savouring the caramel sweetness of the beans. She felt Kaitarō’s eyes on her and lowered her gaze.
‘We can bring Sumiko here,’ he said.
‘Impossible.’ Rina shifted as he stepped behind her. She felt the warmth of him at her back, his breath at her ear.
‘Yoshi will not notice if we take her out for an afternoon.’
‘What will I tell her when this ends?’
‘It won’t end, Rina.’
He drew her back against his chest and she dug her toes deep into the white sand, feeling the tiny grains sift between her red sandals and her skin.
‘I shouldn’t be here,’ she said, but her sentence ended in a shriek as he lifted her up into the air and over his shoulder.
‘Oh my god!’ she hissed, hitting at him with her fists. ‘What are you doing?’ Rina gasped as her ice cream fell into the sand.
‘There are too many people here,’ he said. ‘We can’t talk.’
‘What are you, a child?’
Kaitarō grinned against her hip. ‘You bring out the worst in me.’
‘People are staring.’
‘I don’t care,’ he said. And it was true, she thought, he really didn’t.
They reached his car and he put her down. Rina could feel the blush rising in her cheeks; people were still looking at them. Kaitarō placed his palms on either side of her face. ‘Rina,’ he said, ‘you’re with me today. Try to concentrate.’
She took a deep breath and looked up at him. ‘I don’t have long.’
Rina caught glimpses of the view as they drove up into the hills above the town, following a narrow road that wove between the pines. The sea was a deep blue against the concrete of the bay, and along the slopes she could see the cypresses and cedars settling along the fringes of Atami, as though they would one day reclaim it.
They drove to a parking spot where a stone path led up onto the hillside. Rina tied her bobbed hair back with a handkerchief to protect it from the wind and then she joined Kaitarō on the slope. Together they climbed up to an orchard of natsumikan trees; the summer oranges hung low and heavy against the dark green shells of their leaves. Kaitarō found a spot for them in the grass and spread out the raincoat he had brought from the car. It was beige in the style of New York detectives, and Rina smiled; she liked to tease him about it. A few minutes later, however, as the cool of the breeze settled against the back of her neck, she felt a thread of unease. She had committed herself by coming with him. He wanted more from her, a great deal more, of that she was sure. Rina shifted away from him, pulling her skirt down over her knees. She sat farther back on the coat as he dug into his satchel.
Kaitarō looked up at her; he must have seen the nerves on her face but he just smiled, his right hand reaching to the bottom of the bag while Rina pressed her nails into the flesh of her palm.
‘I brought this for you,’ he said.
She turned towards him to look at what he held in his hands: a Canon EOS 3500. Surprise pushed through her anxiety. She’d seen one in the back streets of Akihabara, looked at it in catalogues, but she had never held one.
‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Take it. I thought we could do some work while we’re up here.’
‘Work?’
‘Don’t you think it’s time?’
Rina turned away. He brought this up persistently – the possibility that she might return to the photography career she’d once planned. But she was afraid: if you neglected something for long enough didn’t it die?
‘I found your essay, Rina,’ he said. ‘The one you published in Exposure?’
Rina bit her lip. ‘That was experimenting.’
‘It doesn’t read that way.’
‘I wrote it just before I left the law programme at Tōdai. Dad threw every copy out of the house.’
‘I can get you a copy.’
‘No need,’ she said, and she looked at him then. ‘I remember it.’
Silently, he handed her the camera.
They moved through the orchard and lay down on the sheets of leaves. Rina watched him, her eyes following the speed of his movements, his fingers nimble as they slid across the bevel of the lens, selecting apertures to accentuate the natural palette of the hillside. For half an hour she remained still beside him, enjoying the rapid click of the shutter, feeling the weight of the camera in her palm. Then, slowly, she lifted the viewfinder of her Canon to see what he could see.
They finished photographing in colour and then, gauging the light and shadows of the afternoon, switched to monochrome film, drawing the shapes of the leaves out through the filters of black and white. She turned to find Kaitarō propped up on his elbow watching her; he was waiting for her to take her shot. Rina narrowed her eyes at him and he grinned as he twisted the lens off his camera. She leaned towards him, watching as he reached into his satchel and drew out a new lens, holding it out to her, describing how he could capture the light drifting down to them.
Later, sitting barefoot on the grass, Rina reached out and plucked an orange from a branch. Kaitarō settled beside her as she split the bright skin and pith of the fruit open with her thumbnail, releasing tiny droplets of zest into the air. She pulled it apart and handed half to him, sucking the sour liquid off her palm. As the sun sank lower on the horizon, Rina leaned back against his shoulder. She rested her cheek on the ridge of his collarbone and watched the light flickering between the trees.
A droplet of water fell onto Rina’s hair followed by two more. It was not until the shower broke through the leaves that she rose to her feet. The storm had crept up on them. It was that way in the mountains; the undergrowth beckoned to the moisture in the air. Kaitarō threw his coat over both of them and she grabbed her sandals as they scrambled down the slope, awash with wet leaves, to his car. Streams of water cascaded down the windows and a white fog materialised over the hills, flattening the mountains into two dimensions before rendering them invisible. Neither of them turned the radio on; they sat in the silence as Kaitarō took her hand, interlacing his fingers with hers.
‘I came third in the Fukase-Isono Photography Prize,’ he said. ‘They’re going to feature one of my pieces in an exhibition. Will you come?’
‘Where is it?’ Rina asked, turning her head to look at him.
‘A warehouse in Akihabara. If the art isn’t to your taste I can always take you to Yabu Soba.’
Rina smiled; he was so cunningly aware of her obsession with food.
‘Don’t mention the duck soba,’ she said, with mock severity.