Ghost Train to the Eastern Star

"All these guys work in offices," Murakami said. "All nerds. So what do we find?"

He was walking along the sidewalk with his usual briskness, indicating signs and agencies and offices.

"'Pop Life,' six stories of porno," he said. "Also massage parlors. See those signs? And video booths over there. And that place, it says 'Pure Heart,' and that one 'French Maids.'"

"You have French maids in Japan?"

"No. From manga."

The sexual fantasies of French maids in alluring uniforms, fishnet stockings, and stiletto heels, and carrying feather dusters, had originated in manga cartoons. That said a great deal about the power of cartoons to influence the inner life of Japanese men, and it evoked something of their solitude, too.

Murakami paused at an intersection and looked around for some thing to show me. Once again, the crowds hurried past him, the famous writer an invisible presence among his readers.

"Let's look at Pop Life," I said.

Inside, amid the porno, he whispered, "What would my readers say if they saw me here?"

Japanese are addicted to euphemisms. Euphemism is a feature of the culture of repression or secrecy; the English, the Irish, the Chinese, and the underworld are no less euphemistic. Instead of "toilet," a Japanese person is more likely to say "the honorable unclean place" (gofujo), and the reply "I will think it over" (kangaete okimasu) means "No way." Such euphemisms were discussed in a piece by the Tokyo-based linguist Roger Pulvers which I happened to read in the Japan Times. Pulvers wrote, "The most common euphemism for the horny, randy and raunchy is ecchi. This word derives from the first letter, h, of hentai, meaning abnormal or perverted."

Ecchi summed up Pop Life. Though Murakami was not easily fazed, even he seemed a bit surprised by what we found on those six busy floors of sex-related merchandise.

"DVDs, lotions, pictures," Murakami mumbled as we walked around the first floor and climbed the staircase to the next floor, where a whole wall displayed bondage ropes in different colors and thicknesses. 'Bondage' is shibari,"

Murakami explained as I scribbled. "But Japanese is subtle and specific. These represent kin-baku—tight bondage."

"Got it"

The third floor was filled with vibrators, dildos, and oddly shaped devices for obscure penetrations. These were arranged according to size and color and were handsomely boxed. Murakami was fascinated as he picked through the wall display. "Look, they come with manuals," he said, squeezing a plastic bag and reading the directions.

An adjoining room was stacked with erotic masks, gag-balls, whips, chains, handcuffs. Also latex outfits and plastic boots.

"'Made in China,'" Murakami translated.

"So they outsource this stuff."

Murakami held another label. He said, pretending to gloat, "Designed in Japan!"

The lingerie and the uniforms were hung on clothes racks on the fourth floor. A large sign in Japanese, Korean, Chinese, and English said, 30% Off If You Pose for a Polaroid.

Next to it were about a hundred Polaroid shots of Japanese girls—satisfied customers—wearing skimpy lingerie or bizarre costumes, most of the girls smiling as they attempted sexy poses, more playful than vicious, like their scrawled explanations.

"I'm wearing this to a Halloween party," one caption said. Another: "I'm wearing this on Saturday." A third, in fur-trimmed underwear: "This is a surprise." A Japanese girl in a French maid's outfit: "I'm Larry's girl."

The maid costume cost $85. The rather dreary school uniform was cheaper. There were racks of cheerleaders' uniforms, nurses' outfits, witches capes, leprechaun getups.

"What's this?"

Murakami translated the label on a red satin jumpsuit. "Devil Girl."

Flight attendants' uniforms, soldiers' khakis, even a "Tea Party Hostess," which seemed to owe something to Alice in Wonderland.

"This is a miko costume," Murakami said, holding up a colorful kimono-like robe. "These women assist at shrines."

"Is that erotic?"

"Maybe. The miko

should be a virgin."

Sweet Café Girl was another, like the uniform of a waitress in an American diner or a carhop at a drive-in.

We climbed to the next floor—videos. They were arranged by category on shelves, and many were voyeuristic, "secret videos," which Murakami translated as tousatsu: spy-hole pictures of changing rooms, bathrooms, bathhouses, hot springs, upskirt shots, and sneaky glimpses of naked and semi-naked girls. The other sections, self-explanatory, were labeled Big Bondage and Mature Woman and Lolita Corner.

"Here's one," Murakami said with a crooked smile, lifting a DVD titled Your Brother's Wife.

The DVD box featured a photograph of an anxious woman and a tormented man. There was a whole shelf of similar films.

"A different kind of dream," Murakami said.