The magnification lamp hummed with a low electric vibration that I felt in my molars. Under the lens, the fissure in the oil paint looked like a canyon. It was a microscopic failure of the binder that held the pigment together. The previous conservator had used a synthetic varnish that yellowed within a decade. It was an insult to the chemistry of the original work. I scraped the surface with a scalpel that had a blade finer than a surgical needle. The movement required me to hold my breath between heartbeats. To breathe was to risk a tremor. To tremor was to destroy history.
Berlin outside was a gradient of wet slate and charcoal. The window of my loft in Kreuzberg offered a view of the weeping industrial sky. November in this city did not just bring cold weather. It brought a specific kind of dampness that tried to seep into the bones of the architecture. I kept the humidity in the studio at a strict forty-five percent. My skin felt dry and tight across my face because of the dehumidifiers. That was a necessary sacrifice. The art required stability more than my body required comfort. I placed the scalpel on the metal tray. The sound of steel hitting steel echoed in the empty space of the apartment.
I rubbed my eyes with the back of my hand. The smell of turpentine and ethanol was the only perfume I tolerated. It was the scent of correction. People thought restoration was about making things look new. They were wrong. Restoration was about suspending the inevitable decay. It was a negotiation with entropy. I picked up a cotton swab and dipped it into the solvent mixture I had prepared. I watched the cotton absorb the clear liquid. I needed to remove the yellowed layer without disturbing the glaze underneath. It was a binary operation. Success or destruction. There was no middle ground.
The buzzer by the heavy iron door screamed. The noise was abrasive and sudden. It cut through the silence I had carefully constructed. I did not move immediately. I waited to see if the person would leave. Delivery drivers usually gave up after ten seconds. The buzzer sounded again. It was a long and continuous press. Whoever was down on the street knew I was inside. My existence here was not public knowledge. I took few commissions. I did not advertise.
I walked across the concrete floor. The cold penetrated through my socks. The loft was a converted warehouse with exposed brick walls that shed red dust if you brushed against them. I unlocked the heavy bolts of the door. The mechanism was stiff. I pulled the door open. The hallway was dark. The motion-sensor light flickered and then stabilized.
A woman stood there. She did not look like the typical Berlin creative type who frequented this district. She wore a coat the color of dried arterial blood. It was tailored wool and looked expensive. Her skin was pale enough to show the blue veins beneath her eyes. She held a large rectangular object wrapped in black velvet. The fabric was wet from the rain. She did not smile. She did not apologize for the interruption. She just looked at me with an expression that suggested she had been waiting for this moment for a long time.
"Henrik Falkenrath," she said. It was not a question. Her voice was flat and devoid of inflection.
"I am busy," I said. I started to close the door. I did not have time for solicitations. I did not have the patience for strangers who found my address.
"I have something that requires your hands," she said. She stepped forward. Her boot blocked the door from closing. It was a bold move. I looked at her boot. It was black leather and covered in street grit. "My name is Mara. I was told you are the only one who can handle this."
I looked at the package she carried. The shape was unmistakably a painting. The size suggested a portrait. The velvet wrapping was soaked. Moisture was the enemy of canvas. I felt a spike of irritation. Bringing art into this weather without proper protection was negligence. It was abuse.
"You are getting the velvet wet," I said. "Whatever is inside will warp if the humidity penetrates the stretcher bars."
"Then let me in," she said.
I stepped aside. It was not an invitation born of hospitality. It was an action taken to save the object from her carelessness. She walked past me into the studio. Her heels clicked on the concrete. She brought the smell of rain and ozone with her. It disrupted the sterile chemical scent of my workspace. She did not look around at the sparse furniture or the high ceilings. She walked straight to the large work table under the skylights. She placed the object down.
I locked the door again. I checked the bolts. Security was a habit. I walked to the table. She began to unwrap the velvet. Her movements were precise. She did not fumble with the folds. The fabric fell away to reveal a gilded frame that was chipped and dull. The frame was Baroque, heavy and ornate, but the canvas inside seemed older.
I turned on the overhead track lights. The illumination flooded the table. I leaned in to inspect the surface. The painting was dark. The varnish had darkened to the color of strong tea. It obscured most of the details. But the composition was visible. It was a woman sitting before a vanity table. She was looking into a mirror. Her back was to the viewer. We could only see her face through the reflection in the painted glass.
"It is titled Der Spiegel," Mara said. She stood on the other side of the table. Her hands rested on the velvet. "The artist is unknown. The provenance is difficult to trace. The story is that he jumped into the Spree immediately after finishing it."
I ignored the anecdote. Stories did not interest me. Materials interested me. I looked closer at the reflection in the painting. The damage was severe. A bloom of white mold had consumed the area where the face should have been. The paint was flaking. The binder had failed completely in that specific section. It looked like a disease spreading across the canvas. The rest of the painting was intact. Only the reflection was destroyed. It was a statistical anomaly. Mold usually grew from the edges inward or in patches of dampness. This was localized destruction.
"The support is linen," I said. I observed the weave where the paint had chipped away. "Mid-nineteenth century weave. The priming layer looks like lead white mixed with chalk. Standard for the era. But the damage is unusual. It looks like water damage, but the surrounding areas are dry."
"Can you fix it?" she asked.
I picked up a magnifying loupe and held it to my eye. I bent down until my nose was inches from the surface. The mold was inactive. It was old damage. But beneath the mold and the flaking paint, I saw something else. The brushstrokes in the mirror area were frantic. They were different from the smooth application on the woman's dress. The artist had painted the reflection with aggression. The texture was rough. It was chaotic.
There was something unsettling about the image. The woman's posture was rigid. The room reflected in the mirror behind her was dark. I felt a cold sensation at the base of my neck. It was a biological reaction to a threat. But there was no threat. It was just pigment and oil on cloth. Yet, the arrangement of shapes triggered a sense of wrongness. It was the uncanny valley. The proportions were slightly off. The perspective in the mirror did not match the angle of the viewer.
"This is extensive," I said. I straightened up. My back cracked. "The loss of the paint layer in the focal point is significant. I would have to reconstruct the face almost entirely. That is not restoration. That is invention. I am a conservator. I am not a painter."
"You are both," Mara said. She looked at me. Her eyes were dark. They absorbed the light from the studio lamps. "I know about the Dürer you worked on in Munich. I know you filled in the missing hand. The museum never knew. The critics never knew. You did not just patch it. You became the artist for those few square centimeters."
I stiffened. That information was buried. It was a professional secret that could end my career. I looked at her. I tried to read her face for deception. She was calm. She was stating facts.
"That was a different situation," I said. My voice was tighter than I intended. "We had reference sketches. We knew what the hand looked like. Here, the face is gone. There is no reference. I cannot invent a person that does not exist."
"You don't need to invent her," Mara said. "You just need to find what is already there. You have the skills to remove the corruption. You have the chemistry to stabilize the layers. You can lift the veil."
I looked back at the painting. The void where the face should have been bothered me. It was an unfinished equation. It was a hole in the data. My mind began to race with the technical possibilities. I could use a solvent gel to remove the mold. I could consolidate the flaking paint with a sturgeon glue. I could fill the losses with a chalk putty. Then came the retouching. That was the challenge. To match the brushwork of a dead man who painted with panic.
"Why this painting?" I asked. "It is not a masterpiece. The technique is competent but not revolutionary. The value of the restoration will exceed the value of the work."
"It is not about the market value," she said. She reached out and touched the frame. Her fingers were long and slender. "It is about memory. This image needs to be seen. It has been blind for too long. I need to see the face in the mirror."
"It will take months," I said. "I work slowly. I do not rush the drying times. I do not use accelerators."
"Take as long as you need," she said. "Money is not an issue."
I walked to the window. I looked out at the rain. The city lights were blurring in the downpour. The Fernsehturm was a faint needle in the distance. I did not need the money. I needed the quiet. I needed the routine. This painting was a disruption. But it was also a puzzle. The damage was so specific. It defied the logic of natural decay. It provoked my need for order. I wanted to fix it. I wanted to smooth out the chaos and make it whole. It was a flaw in the world that I could correct.
"The mold might be toxic," I said to the window. "I will need to run tests on the spores before I begin. I will need to do infrared reflectography to see the underdrawing. I might find that there is nothing under that damage. Just blank canvas."
"You will find something," she said. Her voice came from right behind me. I had not heard her move. I turned around. She was close. Too close. "You are the only one who can do this, Henrik. You understand the silence of these things. You understand what it means to be trapped in a layer of varnish."
The comment was precise. It targeted my isolation. It targeted the way I lived. I looked past her at the painting on the table. It sat there like a dark window. The figure with no face waited. My hands twitched. It was a somatic response. My fingers wanted to hold the brush. They wanted to mix the pigments.
"I will do it," I said. "But you leave it here. You do not visit without an appointment. You do not ask for updates every day. I work in isolation."
"Agreed," she said. She stepped back. The distance between us returned to a comfortable metric. "I will leave you to it."
She turned and walked to the door. I followed her to lock it. She opened the heavy steel barrier and stepped out into the dark hallway. She did not look back. She did not say goodbye. I watched her walk towards the elevator. The doors swallowed her.
I closed my door. I threw the bolts. One. Two. Three. The sound of the locks engaging was satisfying. I was alone again. I was safe.
I went back to the table. The smell of the wet velvet was starting to fill the room. It smelled of earth and old attics. I looked at the painting. I reached out and touched the edge of the frame. It was cold. I leaned in close to the damaged mirror. I adjusted the light.
The white mold looked like a cloud. I imagined the face beneath it. I imagined the eyes. Were they brown? Blue? Were they looking at me? I picked up a scalpel. I did not touch the paint. I just hovered the blade over the surface. I was the surgeon. This was the patient. We were going to spend a long winter together.
I turned off the main lights, leaving only the work lamps on. The corners of the loft fell into shadow. The rain drummed against the roof. It was a rhythmic noise. It was a clock counting down. I took the first swab of solvent. I held it to the light. The liquid was clear. It was pure. I lowered my hand to the corner of the canvas. The work began. The outside world ceased to exist. There was only the chemical bond and the slow revelation of the past. I would fix the error. I would make it perfect.