Chapter 4 — Old Painting Restoration Workshop

During the next two days, Mien Thu hardly left the factory. She worked slowly and cautiously to the point that Thuy Chi sometimes had to remind her to remember to eat. Every millimeter of varnish removed is accompanied by dozens of stops to observe under a magnifying glass, take photos, and take notes. She did not dare to expand the scope of cleaning to the entire painting - focusing only on the small corner that revealed unusual traces, carefully like an archaeologist excavating a layer of soil containing precious relics that one wrong shovel stroke could permanently destroy.

On the afternoon of the fifth day after the painting arrived at the workshop, she decided to try another method — examining the painting under an infrared light, borrowed from an old classmate who was a graduate student in heritage conservation. The equipment is not as modern as the specialized X-ray machines of large conservation institutes, but is enough to see through part of the surface paint layer, detecting sketches or composition changes that the artist has covered up during the process of completing the work.

The studio turned off all the lights, leaving only light from a specialized infrared lamp shining on the painting. Mien Thu installed a specialized camera, connected to the laptop screen, her hand shook slightly when pressing the shutter button.

The image that appeared on the screen made both her and Thuy Chi stand still.

Beneath the layer of paint depicting a woman sitting by a window on a moonlit night, there appear faint outlines of a completely different composition — not a woman, but the shapes of two people, standing side by side, one tall and one short, looking like they are in the middle of a field or a large yard. The lines are rough and unfinished, like a sketch left unfinished.

"Here..." Thuy Chi whispered, her voice trembling. "This isn't another painting painted over, right? This is like... the same painting, but the original composition is completely different."

Mien Thu nodded slowly, her eyes never leaving the screen. "That's right. This is not a case of reusing old canvas as I thought. This is a redrawn painting, with a completely changed composition right on the same background layer, possibly by the same person, or—"

She stopped, not daring to finish her sentence.

"Or by two different people." Thuy Chi finished her sentence, her eyes darkened. "You're thinking about that, right?"

Mien Thu did not respond immediately. She moved the infrared camera to a different location on the painting — the lower right corner, where the artist usually places his signature. In the regular photo, under natural light, the signature "Tu Binh Son" written in stylized Chinese characters, accompanied by the year 1963 in small Arabic numerals, has been confirmed through many documents as the artist's signature in the final stages of his life.

But under the infrared light, something strange appeared: below that official signature, faint but still recognizable, was another mark — smaller handwriting, completely different in style, seemingly painted over by a later signature.

Mien Thu enlarged the image as much as possible, leaned close to the screen, feeling like her heart stopped beating for a few seconds.

"The number..." she muttered. "I think I see another number underneath."

She uses photo editing software to increase contrast and clarify details. Each fading line becomes a little clearer — not "1963" like the signature above, but another series of numbers, not completely clear but enough to read the first three digits: "196..." and a last digit completely obscured by the overlay of paint.

"It could be 1964, 1965, or even later." Mien Thu said, her voice hoarse from tension. "If that's true... if this painting was really completed after the year Tu Binh Son passed away..."

She didn't dare to finish the thoughts that were forming in her head. According to all the art history documents she knows, and according to what Ms. Quach Thien Kim told her the day they met, the famous painter Tu Binh Son died in 1963 - the same year as the date recorded on "Vong Nguyet". If the number hidden under the paint is actually a year later, what does that mean? That the painting was painted, or at least completed, after the author's supposed death?

"Is it fake?" Thuy Chi asked, her voice quiet, as if afraid of her own question.

"I don't know." Mien Thu shook her head, trying to stay calm even though her heart was in chaos. "There are many possibilities. Maybe the artist started painting this painting before 1963 and left it unfinished, then someone - maybe a student, a family member - completed the rest after his death, and signed his name out of respect, because he wanted the work to be recognized as his. That is not rare in the painting world, especially with unfinished works of deceased artists. But it is also possible..."

"It could also be a complete fake." Thuy Chi finished speaking, looking at her with worried eyes. "Miss Thu, what if that's true? This is the central work of a large exhibition, involving both the museum and Tinh Hoa Auction House. If I discover this and don't know how to handle it..."

Mien Thu stood up, went to the window, and looked out at the darkness that was gradually covering Hang But alley outside. She felt a heavy pressure on her shoulders, greater than any pressure she had ever experienced in her previous job. This is no longer simply a technical restoration project. If what she has just discovered is true, she is on the threshold of a secret that could shock the entire art world, could affect the reputation of a deceased artist, the value of an entire collection, and — what scares her most — could be directly related to her own grandfather.

The words in the old notebook appeared in her mind: "Pine varnish mixed with a small part of damar resin, the ratio is unusual compared to the master's standard formula. Remember: never use this mixture for any other project than that one."

A special formula, used only once, never repeated. It was as if her grandfather was marking something on purpose — not to show off, but to remember for himself, so he would never forget.

"I think," Mien Thu said, her voice low, almost whispering to herself rather than to Thuy Chi, "I need more solid scientific evidence before concluding anything. My infrared photos are just the first step, not enough resolution to confirm for sure. I need to analyze the age of the paint layer, the chemical composition of the pigment, and maybe I can accurately determine the age."

"But our factory doesn't have enough equipment to do those things." Thuy Chi said, her voice a bit confused. "We have to send samples to a specialized laboratory, and to do that we have to get permission from the museum first, right? When do you plan to tell Mrs. Kim about this?"

That question made Mien Thu pause. She hadn't thought about that — tell Mrs. Kim immediately, or find out more herself before drawing any conclusions that could cause a stir? If she reported it now, with vague evidence, it might cause unnecessary confusion, and even threaten the factory's contract if the museum thought she was "overdoing" a normal technical detail. But if she remained silent and continued to investigate without reporting, would that be a lack of transparency and lack of professional responsibility?

"I need time to think." She spoke finally, her voice more determined. "Before reporting anything to the museum, I want to have more solid evidence. Not to hide it, but because I don't want to make a serious accusation based on vague speculations. If I'm wrong, the consequences for the reputation of a deceased artist, and possibly even the reputation of my grandfather, will be severe."

Thuy Chi nodded, although her face was still full of worry. "So what are you going to do next?"

Mien Thu looked at the painting again, the eyes of the woman in "Vong Nguyet" seemed to be following her through the thin remaining layer of varnish, keeping within it a secret that had been silent for more than sixty years.

"You need to find someone with enough expertise to help you verify, someone outside the factory, someone with access to specialized analytical laboratories, and—" she paused for a moment, "—someone trustworthy enough not to leak this out before you have a clear answer."

She had heard his name several times in the world, through sharp professional articles in an art magazine, through rumors about his departure from Tinh Hoa Auction House under unpleasant circumstances. A name that until now, she still wasn't sure whether coming to him was the right decision, or the first step that pushed her into a war whose scale she completely did not anticipate.

Kha Nguyen Vu.