I like Valentina a lot, in spite of the fact that she’s a little too much like me. And by that, I suppose I mean that she’s very focused on her work and career. And that she’s not averse to an occasional noisy evening of nocturnal gymnastics, on a friendly and not necessarily long-term basis.

This is a shameful way for a woman to be, of course. We all know that women should be better and purer than men, more concerned about their reputations, and more focused on starting a family.

After dinner one night in Dubrovnik, we were wearing towels and chatting on the patio of my hotel room, she drinking Croatian wine while I sipped aged dark rum, neat.

“Family?” she repeated. “Yes, of course I want to have a family,” she said, with her Castilian accent and habitual exasperation. “Who does not want to have a family? I will marry and have babies some time, but not now,” she proclaimed, rising from her chair, stealing my thin Cohiba and moving to the railing.

Valentina turned back, looking mischievous, blowing out fragrant smoke. “Why do you ask this? Are you prospecting to me?”

“Proposing?” I suggested.

“Yes, proposing,” she agreed.

“No…”

“Good,” she nodded. “Maybe you can proposition me in three years. Now I work and I have fun. That is what you do also,” she accused, pointing my cigar at me.

“Yes, that’s true. May I have my cigar back, please?”

“No.”

***

I had first met Valentina when my sometime collaborator Matt and I had hired her to provide event management for a conference we’d organized in the Turkish Riviera. She had done an outstanding job of managing all the details and coddling all the conference participants. And she had irritated me mightily by (mistakenly, she claimed) sleeping with both me and Matt once the meetings were done.

Since then, I’d engaged Valentina and her firm three more times - most recently to organize this small executive forum in Dubrovnik, on how to minimize official corruption in developing world investments. I had also made a point, on this occasion, of ensuring Matt was at least one continent away.

The conference was going well, and I was pleased with the speakers who had presented over the previous two days. Since I was due to open the third and final day with a speech, I didn’t want to overdo the festivities the night before. And then a Czech gentleman from an anti-corruption NGO made a post-dessert suggestion to our dinner table.

“Slivo… slivo… what’s it called?” I asked.

“It is called šljivovica,” the fellow repeated. “Plum brandy. It is wonderful. You cannot come to Croatia and not enjoy šljivovica!” 

Not wishing to offend Croatia, our table agreed to order some of the local beverage. We made toasts to health, in multiple languages. Aside from the Czech, we were all reasonably certain we didn’t like the medicinal-tasting liquor with the potent kick. But we finished the bottle, just to be sure.

 *** 

I opened my eyes to see Valentina, wrapped in a robe, brushing her long black hair with my brush, before the full-length mirror. She noticed me watching her from the bed, and her reflection smiled at me.

“You look far too beautiful for morning,” I mumbled through the gravel in my throat.

“Thank you. How do you feel?”

I barely heard her over the pounding inside my skull. “Bit of a headache, actually. Must be that slivo… slivo…”

“Possibly it was the šljivovica,” she said. “Also, possibly it was the wine or the champagne. I also had a headache, but I take some of your aspirin and have a bath and drink some coffee and now I feel good.” 

She disappeared into the bathroom, returning with a glass of water and some pills. “Here. Take these now.” I obeyed my medic’s orders. 

“Thank you,” I said, lying back and looking up at her with real gratitude. “I may have to prospect to you, after all.” 

“And I will say no,” she replied matter-of-factly. “You may try to marry me when I am older, not now. But I will make love to you again tonight.” 

That delightful thought abruptly raised a peak in the bedsheet, which Valentina didn't fail to notice. “That will do you no good until tonight,” she said with a naughty grin. 

She returned to the bathroom, and I looked at my watch. I didn’t have a lot of time, and realized I’d better get moving.

Valentina called something from the bathroom.

“Pardon me?” I asked.

“I say I use your toothbrush,” she said, louder.

“That’s fine, Valentina,” I said, sitting up and putting feet to floor.

“And I use your razor also,” she added.

“That’s…” a couple of neurons managed to spark in my foggy brain. A faint alarm went off. I was on my last blade. I’d meant to buy more, but had forgotten.

“My razor? Wait, don’t use my razor. I don’t have any more blades,” I said.

“I already use your razor!” she said, sounding irritated. “What is wrong with you about your razor? Don’t be a child!”

I ruffled my hair and hurried to the bathroom. “What did you use my razor for?” I asked, stupidly.

She looked at me like I was an idiot. And she could be forgiven for that. “What do you think I use it for? My legs and my…” she gestured about, searching for the term. “My… bikini. So I can wear my bikini later.”

I slapped hand to forehead, knowing what was coming.

***

I like shaving. I enjoy the ritual. Have a shower and let the hot water soften my whiskers. Stand naked at the sink, look into the mirror, apply shaving cream and congratulate myself on being handsome. Run the razor down the right side of my face first, from sideburn to jaw. Then the rest of my face.

Just a few long, slow strokes - careful around my Adam’s apple - and I’m fresh and pretty again. At least for a few hours, when a fast-growing new crop of black stubble will appear. I’m one of those guys who develops five o’clock shadow in the morning.

The problem you see, is that I have a rather insistent and persistent beard. It requires a sharp blade to harvest. A dull blade leaves my face looking like a crime-scene photo.

With distaste verging on fear, I regarded the clogged and subtly deformed blade Valentina had left on my Mach 3 razor. There Will Be Blood, I thought to myself.

I had barely a half hour before I’d be expected on stage for my speech. No time to search out fresh blades. I was stuck using the one Valentina had used on her silly girl legs and other silly girl parts. I told myself to be careful. I went extra slowly. Rinsed frequently.

I was doing very well, right up to the moment when I found myself hollering a synonym for excrement.

Just under the left side of my chin, I’d scraped off a sliver of skin. Sure enough, a tiny crimson creek was trickling down my throat. I spoke several more bad words.

I don’t travel with a styptic pencil, because my Mach 3 doesn’t cut me. That is, it doesn’t cut me when the blades are reasonably fresh. When Spanish women aren’t clearing their underbrush with my razor.

The blood would not stop. I suspected the aspirin that had banished my headache had also succeeded in thinning my blood quite spectacularly. Bits of toilet paper stuck to the wound would fill up and fall off my face. A red drop even fell onto the pocket of my blue dress shirt, inspiring another round of expletives.

I was not in the best of moods to make my presentation to the conference.

***

“Corruption!” I blurted angrily, and louder than I’d intended, startling the audience in the main ballroom.

“Corruption is the bane of every decent businessperson,” I continued, glaring at the participants, and wiping blood off my chin with the handkerchief I’d borrowed from an older colleague who affected pocket squares.

“Private infrastructure investment is a tool for national development and honest profit,” I said. “When it is used properly, as it’s intended, by those who have the right to do so, it can refresh and revitalize the economy of a bedraggled country.”

“But it is a tool that can cut both ways,” I continued, stalking across the stage. “When that tool finds its way into the wrong hands… when it is used improperly… when it is taken – taken – without authorization… by those who have no right… that same tool can destroy the legitimate hopes and plans of a country,” I said from between grinding teeth, gazing malevolently at Valentina in the front row.  “And leave the people bleeding.”

Valentina put her hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh, as a drop of blood fell from my chin to the breast of my favorite suit.

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