but he had something I needed, and with him dead I knew how to get it.
'For the next few days I considered a wide variety of plans and methods. I decided for security reasons not to involve anyone else – look at how Rovere had implicated Mother. Besides, I knew that I was going to have to kill again in the future if I was going to make my way as planned. I might as well make a good start. I was aware that I suffered from squeamishness – I disliked intensely the sight of blood – but I was determined to eliminate such weaknesses from my makeup.
'Don't get the idea that I was a total stranger to violence. Quite the contrary, it would be hard to be around Ventura for long without being exposed to one of the major realities of life. Nonetheless, seeing someone killed is not the same as doing it yourself. It was important to get hands-on experience.
'It began to dawn on me that I had picked a tough target to begin with, of course, Mother shared in Ventura's protection. Ventura himself was a physically formidable man and was always armed. The house was heavily guarded at all times, and when Ventura traveled, he was driven in a car fitted with bulletproof glass and armor plating. In addition, heavily armed security police rode in Jeeps in front of and behind him. The same level of security was maintained at BRAC headquarters. Many people wanted Ventura dead, and he knew it. He was an intelligent man. His precautions were well thought out and implemented.
'In the final analysis I abandoned all my complex plans and high tech methods and opted for a scenario that would exploit the one major security weakness, the lack of guards indoors, and at the same time would allow me to lose my virginity and exact retribution in a most direct manner. It was a simple scheme, and it depended heavily on precise timing.
'I thought of blaming the killings on either the CIA or the Fidelistas – either would have represented a certain natural balance to the affair – but in terms of access, neither was very credible without taking out some of the perimeter guards. I would have the advantage of coming from the inside, something they would not be expecting, but even so, it was a tall order for a novice.
'By a process of elimination – and yes, I did think of the Mafia, which doubtless was not too pleased by Rovere's disappearance – I came up with a traditional motive, very Cuban in its fire and passion.
'Day after day I practiced Ventura's signature. I have always had considerable artistic ability, so the results were good. Meanwhile, Ventura and Mother played into my hands. They fought in front of the guards and servants. There were long periods of icy silence between them, and both drank heavily. The tension increased as it became clear that Batista was going to be overthrown. The exodus of Batista followers had started. Mother screamed publicly that Ventura was planning to leave her to be executed by the Fidelistas. This was good stuff. It provided a credible motive. Now it was down to nerve and timing.
'The house was a large three-story building. The guards protected the gate, the walls, and the various entrances to the house itself. There were five servants, but only two lived in. Their quarters were over the garage, with an access door leading directly to the first floor. That door was padded to cut down noise. It didn't seem likely that the sound of shots would penetrate, but sound carries at night, and I had to be sure.
'I typed a note on Ventura's study typewriter, signed it with his signature, and addressed it to Mother. I placed the note in my pocket. I had already taken a small. 22 caliber automatic pistol that Ventura had given my mother several years before. I checked that and place it in the other side pocket of my robe.
'They tended to go to bed late. Through my spy hole, headphones in place, I monitored their progress. As I watched each action, I thought, there, they are doing that or that for the last time. It gave me an odd feeling, almost of omniscience.
'Ventura climbed into bed naked. He drank some brandy and leaned back against the pillows. He was smoking a cigar. His automatic pistol lay, cocked and locked, on the bedside table. Mother sat in front of the dressing table. I knew she would be there for several minutes. She no longer enjoyed sharing a bed with Ventura.
'I left my door open and descended to the floor below. I knocked tentatively on the door and announced myself. Mother let me in. ‘I need to talk,’ I said.
'Ventura looked both irritated and amused. His glass was nearly empty. I walked over to his side of the bed and refilled it. His chest was matted with black hair, and he was sweating. 'Thanks, kid,' he said. His voice was friendly.
'My mother had her back to us as she finished at the dressing table. I replaced the brandy bottle on the bedside table. Beside it there was a hand towel that Ventura had been using. It was damp with is sweat. I wiped my own hands with it and reached into my pocket for the. 22. I shot Ventura twice in the chest.
'I turned as Mother turned and in three swift steps was in front of her. I went down on one knee. Over my shoulder she could see Ventura. She stared, mouth open, too shocked to scream. I placed the pistol in her mouth, angled toward her brain, and squeezed the trigger. There was less noise than you'd expect.
'I heard a faint gasp and walked back to Ventura. He was still alive, though his eyes were going dull. Blood mixed with brandy was staining the sheets. He was saying something. I leaned over to hear, being careful to avoid the mess. ‘But why me?’ he whispered. ‘Why me?’
'I pulled the note from my pocket and showed him his signature. A look of understanding crept into his eyes. I recited a number to him and an amount: ‘One million, three hundred and twenty-seven thousand dollars.’
'‘I was aiming for two,’ he whispered, ‘but that fucking Castro has screwed things up.’
'I shot him again, twice, this time in the head, then tore up the note and scattered the pieces over his body. It announced, in my best version of Ventura's style, that he was leaving Cuba and that Mother would have to look after herself. I placed the pistol in Mother's hand.
'Nobody heard a thing. I didn't have to be found screaming as if I'd run into the room after having heard the shots. I waited ten minutes and adopted the second option. I locked their bedroom door and went upstairs to sleep. I slept like a log. In the morning the guards broke down their door, and the crashes and shouting awoke me. It was easy to drop Mother's door key where it would have been flung out of the lock as the door was burst open.
'I met my new mother three days later. Father gave me a strange look when I shook hands with him, but he didn't say anything.'
'What did you feel after you had killed your mother?' asked Dr. Paul.
'I wished I'd used a shotgun.'
They dined simply: salad, potatoes, cheese, and fruit. There were candles on the table. Throughout the meal they talked about memories, mutual friends, food, and wine, but rarely about the future. From time to time, in unguarded moments, Fitzduane perceived a flash of sadness in Christina's eyes. Mostly she projected warmth, tenderness, and a deep, caring affection. He realized that Guido, despite his pain and approaching death, was quietly content.
They talked about the recent riots in Zurich and the youth movement.
'Consider me confused,' said Fitzduane. 'Apart from no unemployment, virtually no inflation, and the highest standard of living of any European nation, what other problems haven't you got? Who exactly is rioting, and what are they breaking windows about?'
'They are not just breaking windows,' said Guido. 'Thousands of young people also paraded through the streets of Zurich stark naked.'
Fitzduane grinned.
'It's very difficult to say precisely what they are protesting about,' continued Guido. 'Basically, it's a rather ill-defined reaction against much of the Swiss system by a certain percentage of Swiss youth. Whatever the merits of this country, there is no denying that there is tremendous social pressure to conform. Most of the rules make sense by themselves. Put them all together, and you have a free Western democracy without a lot of freedom – or at least that is what they say.'
'It sounds not unlike the 1968 protests in France.'
'There are similarities,' said Guido, 'but 1968 was much more organized and structured. There were leaders like Daniel Cohn-Bendit, and specific demands made. This is much more anarchistic and aimless. There are few precise demands. There is no one to negotiate with. The authorities don't know who to talk to or what to do, so they respond with overreaction and the riot police: clubs, tear gas, and water cannon instead of thought.'
'Is the youth movement throughout Switzerland?' asked Fitzduane.
