McLeod is a joker. Freckle-faced, a mess of red hair, he has no work habits but gets straight A’s. He whispers answers to me in English class, “…it’s Keats, Ode to a Grecian Urn,” even though I never ask him. His father is the superintendent of our school, SAS, so he knows everybody including all the teachers. He hangs out with the watchman, a Sikh with hair down to his ass, and Yusoff the custodian, a Haji with many tales to tell. McLeod is fearless, talking to them in pigeon Punjabi or Malay; knows all the dirty words. I am his disciple since I am new to the island.
Last week in Change Alley a skinny Malay with long fingers steps in front of us and says we should go with him. McLeod pushes past him, dragging me along, and whispers “boonta” as we emerge onto Raffles Place.
“Homo,” he says.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Boonta. Boy homo is boonta; girl, woonta.”
“Oh.”
We stop at a cart and get a coke which the cartman dispenses by opening a bottle, pouring it into a clear plastic bag attached to a nylon string, then dropping in a chunk of ice for cooling. We hold our drinks by the string, sipping the fizz through plastic straws. McLeod looks up at the grey sky and begins talking.
“It’s the Cold War, man. Songs of the Cold War.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
“That album. That Apple album.”
“I don’t get why they call it the Cold War.”
“Hot War– two armies, bang bang, winner, loser. Cold War– spies, missiles; they’re behind East Germany, we’re behind West Germany. Chess match, no bang bang.”
“That’s what the record’s about?”
“Yeah. The spy with the perfect American accent gets called back to Moscow from his post in Miami where he’s infiltrating the Cuban counterrevolution. But he might be a double agent ’cause when he’s home he says ‘honey disconnect the phone.’ That’s it– he’s a double agent.”
“What about the others?”
“Other what?”
“Songs.”
“Cold War. Obvious. ‘Blackbird fly into the light of the dark black night’– that’s telling someone behind the Iron Curtain to escape.”
“What is the Iron Curtain?.”
“Eastern Europe. The Soviets won’t let them watch movies or read a newspaper.”
“How come you know so much?”
“I know nothing and you know less.”
“Thanks.”
“No, you’re smart, but you’ve got to start looking around.”
“I’m trying. What about ‘While My Guitar Gently Weeps.’ That isn’t about the Cold War.”
“Totally about the Cold War.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. Obvious. ‘I look at you all, see the love there that’s sleeping, while my guitar gently weeps.’ A wise man looks at the people of the world, enemies, who are really brothers, and is so torn up he cannot even weep. Only music can express the sorrow.”
“Man, you’re so full of it! The record’s rock’n'roll, just songs, it’s not that fancy.”
“Yeah? Whoever heard of a rock song called ‘I’m Back in the U.S.S.R.?’”
