Series: Behind Closed Doors 3

Luca hunches over his plate, swirling a chunk of crusty bread in a pool of olive oil, the smell of strong espresso and fried sardines filling the tiny kitchen.

“Seventeen years old,” his father said, “and still he drops a net like it’s made of bricks.”

“Maybe nets aren’t his gift,” his mother said as she pulls a tangle of half-finished lace from a basket. “But what else? He doesn’t have the patience for lace.”

Luca was neither fisherman nor artisan. Nets tangled in his hands like angry serpents, and lacework was too delicate for his already man-sized fingers.

“Tourists come to Burano for fish and lace,” his father went on, slamming his mug down. “Not for… what is it you do? Doodle in that notebook of yours?”

Luca glanced toward his satchel leaning against the wall, the corner of his sketchbook peeking out. He stayed silent as the kitchen began to feel too small to hold the weight of his parents’ disappointment.

That night, Luca couldn’t sleep- their words echoing in his head.

He slipped out of bed and padded down the narrow stairs to the cellar, sketchbook in hand. A single bulb buzzed dimly overhead, casting yellow light over coils of fishing net, stacks of broken crates, and a shelf lined with dented paint cans. He moved a few aside, their rattling lids scattering dried flecks of color across the floor. And then, like the first flicker of a match, an idea sparked- sudden and electric.

**************************************

The next morning, as Luca sat at breakfast, a frantic knock rattled the front door.

His mother wiped her hands on her apron and opened it to find their neighbor, Signora Bianchi, her face lit with astonishment.

“Maria! You must tell me who did it!” she exclaimed, gesturing wildly at the front of the house. “The door- your door! It’s magnificent! Like something from a dream! I’ve never seen such colors, such patterns!”

Luca’s father rose from his chair, bewildered, and stepped outside. Moments later his voice boomed through the entryway. “Madonna mia…”

The neighbor clasped her hands together. “Please, Maria. Please tell me who painted it- I must have mine done by the same artist!”

Unaccredited Photo

Weeks passed, and the painted doors multiplied. First Signora Bianchi’s, with its coral swirls and golden lattice, then the Rossi family’s, a riot of rainbow hues that looked like a carnival. Soon every street in Burano seemed to glow brighter, alive with Luca’s secret touch.

No one knew the artist’s name. Locals whispered, and tourists snapped photos. The local news even ran a segment, interviewing elated neighbors, each proudly showcasing their own exquisite doors. 

But legends don’t stay hidden forever.

One moonlit night, just as Luca stepped back to admire his latest creation- a gasp echoed through the street.

A fisherman’s wife, returning late from visiting family, stood frozen, her hand over her mouth. Within minutes, her voice carried through the narrow streets. Lights flickered on. Windows opened. Feet slapped on cobblestones as neighbors poured out into the night.

Then came the flash of cameras. Someone had called the local reporter who’d been chasing the story, and within hours Luca’s face was on television screen across Venice- and soon, across the country. Social media lit up with his photo- a lanky boy with paint-speckled hands and smiling eyes, standing between Burano’s proudest parents.

His father beamed for the cameras. “That’s my boy.”

This is my contribution to Dan’s Thursday Doors.

This is part of a series of stand alone vignettes.. You may navigate all entries in the series by clicking on Behind Closed Doors tab in the Category drop down list.

40 thoughts on “Series: Behind Closed Doors 3”

  5. My father, introducing us:

    “This is Rocky, my oldest. he’s me, but younger.”

    -skips over me to:

    “This here’s my beautiful daughter Linda, and these are the twins, Peter and Paul, proof that the old man’s still got it.”

    Then he turns slightly away, jerks his thumb in my direction and says, “And this one here writes poetry,” like I don’t even have a name; like literacy’s a sin…

    I LOVE your doorpainter tale! Thanks.

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply

Leave a comment