Clive came to wash the car. The rapegate was closed, as it always was. Not locked, just shut with the bolt. Clive never intimated he wanted to come further whenever he came to wash the car. It was a tacit code, deeply rooted in Jamaican Culture. Nor did we particlarly want him to. Our acquantance was purely based on mutual respect, liking and, above all and profit: clean car vs. money. Having said that we always chatted in a lively repetitive sort of way. That day Victoria and I were both in the kitchen, Clive came to the rapegate, he had brought ackee, a great bag full, they looked unripe. Victoria went up to inspect them. He also wanted to wash the car. "Sure" I said, "wonderful!" Then he put his hand through the rapegate, grabbed victoria's forearm gathered a fold of her skin between his thumb and forefinger and exclaimed with fervour "I love your skin."