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Numa Turcatti is Twenty six, a passionate apprentice lawyer, and Montevidean royalty. After graduating from law school last year, he started working at his father’s law firm. It would not be uncommon to say that he resembled his father, inheriting his stark italian features and dark curly hair. Numa founded a football team with his friends when he was only eighteen, and has been captaining it for a few months now. However, his love for football is rooted in his family’s genes. His maternal grandfather, who he is named after, led the Olympics in 1948 and helped the nation win a gold medal that year in football. Deep down, Numa is more insecure than anything. Worried that he will not live up to his family’s name—especially with his current “Work in Progress” Protegé.
_
Montevideo, December 1973
The conference room of La Caja Obrera smells faintly of printer ink, bad cologne, and coffee that Numa never actually liked, but drank because everyone else did.
The other workers are doing what they’re actually here for, in this cramped room around the table, as their CEO speaks to them in his usual monotone voice that everyone is afraid of.
But Nat sits quietly. He's scribbled a few notes down, but if he speaks outwardly he’ll surely get interrupted by someone.
“Doing okay, kiddo?”
Numa blinks as he turns to his whispering father. Whose sitting at the edge of the table next to the CEO unthreatened by his authority. He’s seen this man a thousand times in his career, enough to gain his respect and be elected to the board of directors. But Numa isn't like that. He hasn’t got years of experience like his father, only a shiny new law degree and a spot at handling loans for the biggest bank in Montevideo.
“Fine.”
“Turcatti.”
Both Numa and his father turn their heads, The CEO clears his throat when he notices the mixup.
“Gastón.” The CEO clarifies, motioning towards the graph on the flip chart.
Numa’s father straightens his tie before standing up, stepping towards the head of the board
“Observe the following,” Gastón’s voice raises,“New economic models proposed by president Juan María have caused GDP to decline over three percent nationwide.” His father says, taking the pointer from his coworker's hand and pointing to the graph.
There’s a certain heaviness that lingers in the air as the “president” is mentioned. Everyone is thinking the same thing, yet everyone’s tongues remain held back, This country is in shambles.
“As the effects of the Great Depression linger and our valued customers start trusting us again, it is important that we offer economic stability, and provide valuable legal and financial advice.”
Numa hasn’t seen any economic trouble himself. Gastón buys new jewelry for his mother every holiday, His older brother makes enough to support the new baby and the family’s funds cover Isabel and Daniel’s—Numa’s younger siblings’— tuition for private college. But their small neighborhood of pomp and swagger is different from the majority of Uruguay. Although this difference had always existed, even when Numa was younger, the gap only increased after Juan María came into presidency. Bella was warned by their mother to stay in the neighborhood, and if she needed something in the city, go with a friend, respect police officers, and don't talk about the president openly
“The main issue is that big banks in New York, London, and other foreign banks have stagnated our credit lines, meaning that we no longer have the ability to take loans.”
Nobody says why. It’s because Uruguay is unstable.
“Simultaneously, people are panicking. Specifically, our wealthy shareholders. The idea of the peso losing worth, or the government taking their money from our bank, is scaring them. If everyone reaches to take their money out of our bank and move it to another, more stable country, we risk a bank run. And we need solutions, fast.”
A hushed murmur of worry lapses across the table of lawyers, none able to say a solution out loud.
What if they—?
No. That can’t work. Surely that can’t work.
“Don’t all answer at once.” Gastón says sarcastically.
“Turcatti.”
Both of them turn their heads again, making the CEO sigh in frustration.
“Numa.”
Numa nearly jumps in his skin.
“Ideas.”
What? Why is he asking him?
Sure, Gastón worried that these guys like to put some extra pressure on their new recruits, but this is just out of humiliation. Sometimes it feels like nobody takes him seriously here.
Numa clears his throat before speaking.
“CEO, I suggest that you move the money somewhere else.”
His throat goes heavy in his mouth. What the hell does that even mean?
His father raised an eyebrow.
“Go on.”
“Um— um, what I mean is—!”
He says quickly, adjusting the collar of his suit.
Deep breaths.
“Not physical paper money. I mean we move the funds the bank has to other banks in more stable countries like London, Paris, and of course, New York. That way, the money is somewhere that Juan María cannot touch even if he wanted to, reassuring our clients and preventing a bank run.”
He hears his coworkers murmuring, and suddenly he’s fighting back the urge to melt into the carpeted floor until he has to be scooped up with a bucket and carried out like that.
“That… might actually work.” The CEO says, tapping his chin with his pen.
“Turcatti—I mean—Gastón, is it legal?”
“I don’t see why it wouldn’t be.”
The board of directors murmur in approval.
“We should look into it. Now, let’s discuss how this money can be transported.”
The rest of the meeting, Numa is silent. He feels as if he’s spoken enough at work for the next three weeks.
A part of him hates this job, with the amount of pressure it holds to get everything right. But what job doesn’t do that? What job doesn’t leave you staying up until two in the morning looking over documents? What job doesn’t leave you paralyzed with stress? It’s just normal adulting that Numa needs to adjust to.
But sometimes he misses the times when he was barely eighteen, sounding a soccer team with his friends just so they’d have an excuse to see each other again. He told his family that it was to “uphold his grandfather’s legacy” (even though being the president of the Olympics barely compares to a non-professional soccer club) and for awhile, it was enough.
The meeting ends only a half an hour later, his coworkers standing up and grabbing their suitcases. One even claps Numa on the shoulder.
“Looks like take your kid to work day worked out, huh?”
“Take Your Kid to Work Day...” Numa grumbles under his breath. As if he isn't as good as any of the other guys here.
“Numa?”
“Yes, Papà?”
Nat turns on his heel.
His father looks at him with a concerned expression as his coworkers scatter to take down the graph or grab another cup of coffee or do whatever they need to do.
“Found some mail in your office mailbox, thought I would pick it up for you.”
Numa sighs under his breath as he watches his father open his briefcase, meticulously organized down to each little paperclip sitting on every piece of paper.
Gastón pulls out a little envelope with the emblem of Uruguay stamped into the seal.
A legal letter.
“I think we both know what the issue is.” His father says, placing the envelope into Numa’s hands.
Numa holds his breath, silently asking “How bad is it?”
“Aviso del departamento de policía de Uruguay
WARNING.
The illegal ownership and dispersing of Socialist literature detected at your intellectual property address. Please remember that ownership of ANY media that promotes, marxist, socialist, of leftist propaganda is ILLEGAL and is punishable by imprisonment and a fine of up to 19,000,000 Uruguayan Pesos. If you are NOT the owner of illegal media, please discuss the ownership of such material with the people who reside under your intellectual property or address.
This can include:
Parents, Guardians, or Children.
Caretakers, maids, or servants
Wives,
Business partners”
Arturo.
What did he get himself into this time?
“If you are housing anyone who is wanted by the Uruguayan military, please understand that this is also ILLEGAL and punishable with imprisonment.”
Numa’s heart almost drops to the floor, right on the perfectly polished tiles of the conference room.
Arturo Nogueira is 22, an economics student, and an ardent socialist. He is what remains of the devastated socialist party of Uruguay. He’s outspoken—and that’s the issue. Numa always manages to get him out of trouble, whether that be with his wealth or reputation. Strictly for business reasons.
“How much is it going to cost him this time?” He wonders as he reluctantly reads the rest of the letter.
“YOU HAVE BEEN FINED WITH”
Numa holds his breath,
“38,800 URUGUAYAN PESOS”
Okay.
Not the worst.
“You must pay this fine by December 23rd 1973. Failure to pay will result in further consequences.”
“What did they say?”
The voice of Numa’s father cuts through the noise in his head.
“Thirty eight thousand.”
“For?”
Numa can feel himself shrinking.
“For selling socialist material.”
Gastón sighs, removing his glasses and leaning against the conference table.
“It— It was probably just a book or two! I’ll talk to him about it, I swear!”
“Kiddo.”
Numa tries to get more out, but the words die in his throat.
“When are you going to admit to yourself that this Arturo kid is causing you to lose sleep for no reason?”
Numa’s stomach twists, but he adjusts his tie and stands straight.
“I told you, my protection of him is strictly for business purposes.”
“Business purposes? You mean that little football team?”
“He’s my winger! He’s no good on the field if he’s behind bars.”
Gastón frowns under his mustache.
“He’s a bad influence on you, and a bad influence on your reputation.” He says sternly.
“You need to start making decisions for your future at this company, how will anyone respect you if you’re friends with a commie?
“He’s not even a communist! He’s a—“
“Socialist?”
A beat
Numa realizes quickly that this is a losing game.
“I’ll talk to him.” He repeats.
Gastón sighs.
“You’re an adult.” He says.
“I’m sure you know how to handle this.”
“I do.”
_
That afternoon, Numa leaves the firm for his lunch break and decides to spend it on the beach.
The waves roll against las playas de Carrasco, kissing the shoreline. The sounds of the seagulls being terrorized by a little brown cocker spaniel rolling in the sand.
“You’re gonna need a towel for him.” Arturo says flatly, sitting cross legged on the towel, fingers stained red with strawberry juice.
“I have one in my car.” Numa laughs, watching him splash around and dive for a washed up fish.
“How was work?”
Numa inhales sharply.
“Fine.”
“Any talk about—”
“Obrera is doing what we can to protect our customers.”
Nat says defensively.
“But there's nothing we can do about—”
“About the fact that inflation is up a hundred percent?”
There it is.
“That the reform that this country voted for is now a dictatorship?”
“When will you admit that protest is too risky now?”
Numa’s thoughts are cut off at the mechanical whirring that he’s heard a hundred times, a tank.
“Shit— get down!”
For all of Arturo’s pomp and swagger, Numa can see the slight fear in his eyes as they both duck, trying to hide behind the tall grass at the beach's border, letting it act as a shield blocking them between the vehicle. Even Champ trots over, bowing his head low.
The earthy green machinery rolls steadily down the road, menacingly slow as it points its firearm side to side. Those never used to pop up in Montevideo. Police cars? Of course. But never tanks. A lot of new changes have been happening since the coup d'etat—When the president took over the country with soldiers and warfare instead of peace and democracy. That was six months ago.
“They can’t even take us if they see us.” Arturo says, finally.
“We’re legally allowed to be here—”
“But they could anyway, if they think we’re—” Numa cuts him off.
“We are.” Arturo replies.
Numa looks down at Champ, who’s now shaking off the ocean water and flinging it at the bothered seagulls.
“Do you know what my father would think if I was arrested because I was openly—”
“With a socialist?”
“With a boy.”
Numa has had to learn this even before the dictatorship, since he was a teenager and old enough to understand.
“It’s not illegal.”
“They’ll charge us for public indecency, even if we aren't doing anything wrong. We’re playing a dangerous game, Arturo.”
Being what he is, what he and Arturo are— in an upper class, god-fearing, catholic town, means the police will find ways to bend the law if it means getting him behind bars. Despite his family’s prominence, or his fathers legal knowledge, they wouldn't bother to help. If anything, they’d surely disown him. They’d rather have no son at all than a queer one. It wasn’t long before Numa realized that there were other boys like him, hiding in the corners of the earth. In speakeasies or clubs, with secret tattoos or messages. Some who have already been abandoned by their families or their “Wives.” But they stay hidden for a reason. Natalino knows that because he stays hidden too.
So for now atleast, he’s just taking Arturo under his wing for the sake of the football team. Keeping him as a roommate because of the crumbling economy, bailing him out of jail solely for business purposes.
Not because the idea of being away—left to the mercy of Juan María and his soldiers— from him makes his heart twist violently in his chest.
“We are.” Arturo finally replies, taking a sip from the gourd of Maté. “Which is why we need to—”
“Even if your massive plan to overthrow the government and have equality for everyone, we would still be outcast. You've seen how they treated boys like us before this.”
“Maybe.” Arturo says, passing the gourd to Numa. Their hands brush as it’s passed.
“But it’s worth a try.”
“Worth a try.” Numa says, taking a sip from the gourd, wincing slightly at its grassy taste.
“Not worth dying over.”
___
The rest of the work day continues with ease, and Nat finds himself with Arturo, in the living room of their flat.
The music from the record player hums softly, a steady rhythm that has left the pair dancing in the light of the sun seeping through the curtain. Numa rests his head against Arturo’s shoulder, arms wrapping around the base of his neck as they sway to the music. Arturo holds Numa steady with his arms flush against his waist.
“You’re good at this,” Numa murmurs before accidentally mistepping on his novio’s foot.
Arturo winces, but doesn’t comment any further. “I’ve had experience.”
“With girls?”
“With people.”
Numa chuckles.
“I wish we could do this… outside, in public.”
Arturo takes Numa’s hand, spinning him around slowly before returning to their position.
“One day.”
Silence between them stretches for a while.
“I got a letter from the police.” Numa says, hoping that the gentle pace of their dancing will be enough to keep this conversation from turning into an argument. Still, he can feel Arturo’s breath hitch faintly.
He knows.
“Is that what all of those boxes in the closet are full of?”
“Bookstores don’t sell that stuff anymore.”
“For a reason.”
“People need hope, Numa.”
“And you need to stay out of prison. Is this your new workaround instead of active protest?”
“This is ‘active protest.’”
“You know what I mean.”
“Theres a whole network of us, you know.”
“Of commies?”
“Of people who want change.”
Numa’s eyes flutter, he presses his forehead against Arturo’s collarbones.
“I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“You can join us, you know. Help out the cause.”
“I am helping, by bailing you out of prison.”
“And I appreciate that, but you can be doing so much more.”
Numa looks up.
“What do you mean by that?”
Arturo goes quiet for a moment. Numa tries to shift away while still keeping the rhythm of the dance, but Arturo puts a hand on his jaw.
“There’s an organized protest tonight, come with me.”
Come with me.
Surely he can’t be serious.
Numa pulls away with more force this time, leaving their slow dance to an abrupt stop.
“You’re kidding me.”
He turns his back towards Arturo, but Arturo grips his arm.
“Numa—”
“You really don't know when to quit, do you?”
Arturo’s brow furrows.
“No, I don’t. I can’t.”
“Why not? Hm?”
“What do you expect I do differently? This country is in shambles. The Socialist party—”
“The Socialist party is done!”
Silence
“You can’t just go out and do this and expect not to get yourself killed!”
“Killed”
“Yeah, Arturo. Killed. Youve been arrested 2 other times already, do you think theyre going to let this slide if you get caught?”
In the midst of their fighting, Champ trots out of the kitchen, the dog trying to find the source of all of the ruckus
“I won’t.”
“You don’t know that”
For a moment, Arturo’s face twists, Numa can see the hurt under all of that bravado.
“Whose side are you on?”
Numa’s breath hitches.
“Arturo, listen to me, You don’t understand—”
“No, you don’t understand, Numa. You never understand.”
Arturo steps closer. The sudden movement alarms Champ, and his imprudent barking suddenly accompanies their arguing
“Youre just a spoiled, silver-spoon rich kid who can’t wrap their head around real issues.”
Numa scoffs, but the anger is quick to die as he sees Arturo heading for the door.
“No!”
“Let me go, Numa.”
Champ whimpers, rushing towards Arturo and biting down hard on the leg of his pants.
“I can’t let you go and get yourself killed!”
“Id rather die standing up than live on my knees.”
Arturo mutters, swiftly kicking Champ in the ribs. The dog yelps in pain, releasing his grip.
“I can’t lose you!”
A beat.
Arturo’s arm goes slack against where Numa grabs him as he turns around to face him.
“Please…”
Numa finally says, tears falling freely now.
The door slams as Arturo walks out the apartment.
Rage courses through Numa veins.
“You’ll be sorry for this Arturo Nogueira!! You will!!” He laments.
He’s not going out for him. If he wants to get himself killed, fine.
__
He goes out anyway.
The warm summer air caresses his face as he hops on his bike. Rain from the storm beats against his body
He won’t let him die doing this
He won’t.
He only has to bike a few minutes into the city square before he has to stop, finding himself unable to wind through the storm of angry protesters ahead.
Arturo is in here… somewhere.
He parks his bike on the side of the road, not caring to lock it as he runs into the crowd.
“Arturo! Arturo where are you!” Arturo shouts, nudging his way through the crowd. Someone elbows him in the ribs as he tries to move, and pain fires up his side.
He has to find Arturo. If the police don’t kill him, the crowd will.
But how will he in this mess? Of students from every college in Montevideo marching for justice?
The crowd moves like a wave, eventually thrusting Numa further and further towards the front. He searches endlessly for Arturo.
“What if something has already happened? What if he—“
His thoughts are broken as he hears police sirens. Police sirens. He feels the shift in the crowd too, how their chants go from sounds of fear and urgency, how people start moving backwards instead of forwards.
Numa, however, Keeps moving.
“Arturo! Arturo where are—“
He’s cut off as he feels a hand clamp around the back of his neck.
He can barely choke out a scream as he’s thrown onto the floor by his knees as someone grabs his hands and pins them behind his back. Numa sees the police officer’s face out of the corner of his eye.
“No! Let go of me! You fucking psycho!”
He yells, struggling against the officer’s grip.
One of the other officers look down at him, face looking as if he’s trying to solve a puzzle.
“Hey. Isn’t that Turcatti’s boy?”
“Well he’ll be very disappointed to see that his son is out doing this.”
Numa tries to argue back, but his thoughts are broken as he hears another voice grunt in pain as he sees a body hit the floor. A tall, lanky boy with jet black hair.
“Arturo!”
Arturo looks at Numa, eyes filled with shock and confusion before they have a chance to waver into resentment.
But the cops are not as lenient as they were with Nat. He’s pinned entirely against the floor, cheek pressed up against the concrete.
“Let him go!” Numa shouts, struggling against the cop's grip again.
He can see the fear spike in Arturo’s eyes as he curses at the cops.
As the crowd panics at the entrapment of the two boys, the rush forward again. Being held back from the police says they protest the release of the two boys.
An officer murmurs something indescribable into his portable radio.
“Arturo Nogueira. He’s had history with us before.” He says.
No.
They recognize him.
Numa feels his heart drop as the officer pulls out his handgun.
“No! No please! Let him go!”
Arturo’s eyes widen with fear as he further struggles under his grip.
“Please—“
A gunshot fills the air, and all that Numa can see is red splattering against the concrete
-
The police let him go after that, and all Numa can do is run.
His lungs burn, his legs are going to give out soon For a moment he lets his mind imagine that he’s on the soccer field, getting ready to score a goal with Arturo by his side.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been running when he hits the beaches. The same one that they sat by on that same afternoon.
Despite the fact that the storm has since lightened, the waves still roll threateningly, crashing into each other and causing water to spray on the dock that Numa collapses on.
His knees hit the wood hard, but it doesn’t hurt nearly as much as the pain in his heart.
Arturo is dead. And he died the exact way that everyone expected him to. Fighting, ardent, and painfully young.
He’s dead.
And Numa couldn’t save him.
And Numa is stuck here without him.
Numa stands up, wiping his tears with the heel of his hand before falling into the violent waves.
As water fills his lungs, he realizes that maybe it wasn’t worth protecting him so much if it meant falling in love with someone so doomed.