Ghost Train to the Eastern Star

Examining this material culture pleased him, because the tools were peculiar to Japan and so well made. Murakami denies that his books have any deep meaning, and he has said he stands against interpretation of his texts, yet hovering over his work, and of Underground especially, is the notion that Japan has lost its way.

I mentioned this to him as we walked through the park in front of my hotel, skirting Ueno Station.

"We had pride and anxiety during wartime," he said. "Early successes, then defeat. Occupation was hard—U.S. soldiers..."

He waved his hand as though to suggest GIs lounging among the cedars and willows at the edge of Shinobazu Pond, and Americans in fatigues and big boots watching us through sunglasses. The reminder of Japan's surrender was a humiliation, but the graceful way Murakami accepted it put me in mind of Borges, who said, "Defeat has a dignity which noisy victory does not deserve."

Murakami's way of speaking was abrupt and almost telegraphic. He would say something, and interrupt himself, and lapse into silence. His concentrated silences I took to be proof of his confidence rather than shyness. He had few questions. He was almost absent at times, in a shadow of watchful circumspection.

"We admired MacArthur—we still do. He's like a father figure."

"Not many Americans think about him," I said. "He was fired and forgotten."

"He helped us rebuild. And we had to work hard to rebuild. The bombing destroyed so much—especially over there."

He was pointing across a wide busy street towards Kappa Bashi, the street of kitchenware, baskets, lacquerware, knives, strainers, teapots, woodworking tools. He meant the firebombing of Tokyo, which killed more people than the atom bombs. In 1945 Japan was destroyed. Every city except Kyoto had been wrecked. Half the buildings in Tokyo were reduced to ashes. MacArthur's orders, as supreme commander of the Allied powers, had been "Remake Japan."

Murakami's voice was so uncharacteristically tremulous and aggrieved I did not mention the obvious—that Japan had drawn us into the war with the unprovoked attack on Pearl Harbor. But clearly his thinking of the postwar struggle put him in mind of the present mood.

"We're in a state of defeat now," he said. "We were doing very well—making money. You know the story. Cameras, cars, TV sets. The banks were lending money to anyone."

And then it ended. He described how the bursting of the baburu keizei, the economic bubble, in 1991 and '92 had left people dazed, and in some cases bankrupt. This period of uncertainty was followed by two events in 1995 that shattered the Japanese notion of itself as solid and immutable: the Kobe earthquake and the gas attack, in January and March. Murakami had been traveling for almost a decade, first in Italy and Greece—a Greek island is the setting for the drama in his novel Sputnik Sweetheart

—then in the United States, where he taught at Harvard, Princeton, MIT, and Stanford. The shocking news stirred Murakami, who was far away.

"I wanted to come back, to do something for my people," he said. He became somewhat self-conscious saying it, perhaps sensing that it sounded vain. "Not for the country—country is nothing. But Japan's people are its treasure."

We were walking down the wide street through Kappa Bashi, past shops, but not the ones he intended to show me.

"Before '95, to get rich was everything," he said. "And we succeeded, through ingenuity and hard work. We thought that would make us happy." He had an athlete's upright posture, square shoulders and springy step, and he was moving briskly.

"Did it? Make you happy?"

He didn't answer. He spoke, as he walked, at his own speed. It was a Murakami trait: he wouldn't be hurried or interrupted; he always completed his thought. "We thought, 'Money can solve anything at all.'"

We came to a street corner and waited for the signal to cross. For the duration of the crossing he said nothing, but on the other side he picked up where he left off.

"But hard work didn't bring us to a better place. We found that money is not the answer." He fell silent, noticed that I was scribbling notes, and after a while he resumed. "We had our goals. We achieved them, but the achievement didn't bring us happiness."

"So what are the goals now?" I asked.

"Our goal is still to be happy and proud," he said. "And we're looking for a new goal."

"I always thought of Japanese culture as an unchangeable set of traditions and symbols. Like the Yasukuni Shrine."