The Doors

A fictional travelogue; four minutes to read.

In Florence, Italy—a city of spires, domes, belltowers, churches, religious orders and all the great art that Renaissance money could buy—the town centerpiece is the bronze, seventeen-foot-high Doors of Paradise on the Baptistery of St. John. The building is an octagonal tumor, protruding skyward from the Piazza San Giovanni.

The plaza pavement is grey, grimy, sticky with congealed gelato, discarded sandwich wrappers, drips and drizzles from pizza slices. The detritus of tourism. In contrast, the doors sparkle like jewels draped on a dowager’s wrinkly, weathered neck.

The 15th century doors are divided into panels depicting Old Testament stories. God creating Adam and Eve. Abraham considering the sacrifice of his son Isaac. Moses receiving the Ten Commandments.

Without knowing very much about the artist or the Renaissance patrons who financed his masterpiece, I am still able to admire Lorenzo Ghiberti’s doors. That is, until a long-sequestered memory meanders out of the baptistery and walks into my mind. My hands fidget, my stomach is a bit quivery, I keep clearing my throat as if to cough up an unpleasant taste.

One night, after way too many Saturday night drinks, cloistered in our dorm room with the door shuttered and world locked out, my college roommate Brian unburdened a secret. He told me that when he was fourteen years old Father Gilroy took him into a confessional and unzipped his pants.

As if he were talking about some distant college student on the other side of the world, his voice was flat, weak, emasculated. He seemed detached from his own life, retreating even from himself. Untouchable.

My mouth, dry and muted, I sinned against our friendship. I said nothing.

Two days later, in the parking lot at A-I Auto Parts, he swallowed a bottle of antifreeze.

At the inquest, I was his only suicide note. Without collaboration, no one saw fit to hear the truth, his truth. The archdiocese threatened a defamation lawsuit. Hiding out behind classroom doors, again I said nothing.

Doors are the cliché metaphor. When a life door slams shut, cracking my nose into twisted, bloody disappointment, some idiot steps forward to insist that another door is about to open. It wasn’t true for Brian. His opened door was a hinged coffin cover.

Doors, even doors ajar, make lousy windows. Every door has an untold story. Thick, sturdy wooden doors. Metal doors. Glass doors. Doors with bells, buzzers, knockers or nothing at all. Aged doors with peeling, flaking paint. New doors with high-glossy paint. Prison doors, hospital doors, church doors. Swinging doors, locked doors, revolving doors, double doors. French doors, patio doors, closet doors, garage doors. Doors to push, doors to pull.

For every Florentine door, I can only guess at the lives and loving that is happening beyond my gaze. A loving husband and wife. A much-loved child playing with friends. A merchant counting the money he loves. Immigrant parents lovingly teach their child their ancestral language. An inventor falling in love with his creation. A lovesick youth. A priest loving whomever is nearby.

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