Author and Artist
The Doors
A fictional travelogue; four minutes to read.
In Florence, Italy—a city of spires, domes, belltowers, churches, religious orders and all the pious art that Renaissance money could buy—I’m strolling down a twisty, cobbled, narrow passageway. A bicyclist—a boy of maybe nine or ten—careens around me pedaling at breakneck speed. In a few years, he’ll be old enough for one of my high school history courses.
Cursing, I hop out of his way. As he turns the corner, a silent prayer forms in my brain, “Godspeed. Go home. Go anywhere other than a church.”
A drizzly rain shrouds the city. The evening converts to night, moonless. The smells and noises of commerce go into hiding. It’s as if a confessional curtain has pulled itself around me.
In the Piazza San Giovanni, the octagonal Baptistery of St. John thrusts skyward. Its artistic centerpiece is the bronze 15th century Doors of Paradise by Lorenzo Ghiberti. They 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.
I don’t see a scene depicting the rape of children.
The pavement is grey, grimy. Sticky with congealed gelato, sandwich wrappers, drips and drizzles from pizza slices. The detritus of tourism.
Unlike the somber, stately cathedrals of Gothic Europe or reverential Rome, across the plaza the Duomo is tarted up with marble panels of white, green and pinkish red. The décor would work well for the Moulin Rouge in Paris.
My stomach is a bit quivery. I’m clearing my throat as if to cough up an unpleasant taste—or memory.
One night, after too many Saturday night drinks, cloistered in our dorm room with the door shuttered and the world locked out, my college roommate Brian unburdened himself of a long-sequestered secret. His body hunched over as if he were talking about someone else, I had to strain to hear his words. He was a man struggling to speak, emasculated.
When Brian was thirteen years old, his parish priest Father Gilroy unzipped Brian’s jeans.
My mouth, dry and muted, I said nothing. I sinned against the most basic commandment of friendship. No words of support. No confirmation that his life history would not change our planned summer road trip.
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. No one—not even his family—wanted to hear his truth. The archdiocese’s lawyer threatened a defamation lawsuit. Again, I hid behind the door of silence.
Doors are a cliché metaphor. When a door shuts, some fool insists that another door is about to open. The door Brian opened was a coffin cover.
The door I’ve prayed to reopen is buried with Brian. But this door is bolted shut.
For every Florentine door I’m passing, I can only guess at the lives happening behind them. A loving husband and wife disrobing. A well-loved child playing. A merchant counting the money he loves. Immigrant parents lovingly teaching a child their ancestral language. An inventor in love with his creation. A lovesick youth pining.
A priest loving whomever is nearby.
