The Bubble Match Read online

  I enter the room. I smell the thick scent of my stepmother’s perfume, and decisively ignore her presence.

  “Of course you’d come running back the second you smelled your inheritance coming,” she says. How dare she – this despicable woman, who climbed the social ladder after latching on to my father like Spider-Man sticks to a wall. Apparently she’s grown so accustomed to her own bullshit that she forgot how low she started. And it was very low, about knee-high, below my father’s desk. She was a secretary, not particularly bright, but clever enough to snatch the fattest fish in the pond.

  He didn’t look that fat now, though. He seemed emaciated. I hadn’t seen my father in four years, and now I barely recognized him. His body, which in my memory had been muscular and well-built, is now limp and fragile looking. I am horrified by the tubes sticking out of him. The steadily beeping machines are the only indication that he is still alive. I knew it was bad and still I didn’t expect this, seeing him like this. At least he’s asleep and can’t see the devastation on my face.

  “I’ll leave you two alone. You can try talking to him, but don’t expect him to answer. He’s pretty much a dead horse by now,” my stepmother offered, with her usual gentleness.

  I have mixed feelings as I look at my father. He is certainly the smartest person I know; his genius is indisputable. I know that he isn’t a bad man, at his core. I also know that he’d always loved me, believed in me, supported me. But the moment he turned his back on my mother he sentenced her to death.

  Marriage, inherently, is a fucked-up thing.

  And monogamy is shit.

  Honestly, I’m the last person to blame anyone for succumbing to the excitement offered by a pretty face – and my stepmother, abominable as she may be, did have a very pretty face. And of course, not every woman who gets cheated on kills herself, but my mother had never been happy in the first place. I can’t remember ever seeing her smile a true smile, one that came from the eyes and the heart, not even once. That might be why I hate fake smiles as much as I do. Today I realize that my mother suffered from undiagnosed depression. When my father abandoned her for that woman, it pushed her over the edge.

  This is hard.

  Standing there in front of him and admitting that I understand him but will never be able to forgive him. Knowing that I love him because he’s always been there for me and hating him because he wasn’t there for my mother.

  My father opens his eyes, blinking.

  “You’re here. I was afraid I wouldn’t get to see you.” He seems moved by my presence, but his voice is so faint I can barely make out the words that he is clearly struggling to say.

  “How’re you feeling?” I ask, knowing the question is ridiculous.

  “Let’s just say… it isn’t what you would consider Bubble-worthy.” Even now, at his weakest, he hangs on to his sense of humor. He is making the effort for me, and knowing that hurts even more.

  “There was a time when I considered developing an observation mode for Bubble, let people experience someone else’s recording. Now I almost regret not having one. You could have known how much I enjoyed every moment I got to spend with you. You could know how happy I am that you are here now.”

  I feel sad for the time we’d missed. “It’s a shame you didn’t.”

  “It was too dangerous,” he says. “Imagine someone hacking into your memories and distorting them. Or revealing people’s innermost feelings to the public. People would be afraid to make records. Or they would want to know what their partner thought of them – can you imagine the effects on divorce rates?” he smiles weakly at me.

  “I loved your mother. If only I’d known that it would affect her that way… I never, I would never…”

  I know what he’s trying to say, but it’s too late to atone. His eyes are begging me to forgive him. I consider giving him his redemption before his spirit separates from his flesh and the words I forgive you cling to my tongue, but I can’t speak them because that forgiveness would fly in the face of my mother’s memory. His actions, in the end, were the ones that led to my being motherless at seven.

  He raises his hand, gesturing for me to come closer, and sighs heavily. It pains me to see how strenuous this small action proves for him.

  “I don’t have long.” I see how difficult this is for him. He’s overexerting himself. I want to tell him to stop being silly, he’ll get better in no time, everything will be fine – but we both know time is precious, and it is a shame to waste it on lies.

  “There is a file on my computer that I need you to delete immediately. Only you and I know the password – do you remember where we used to eat on the way back from your swimming lessons?”

  I nod.

  “No one else must know, do you understand?” he coughs with the effort of speaking.

  “Which file?”

  “File 142.” He coughs again.

  “What’s in it?” I’m curious.

  “Something that poses a risk to Bubble’s continued existence. Will you promise me that you’ll delete it as soon as possible?”

  “I promise.”

  If I can’t grant him forgiveness, at least I can grant him this small request. I feel his hand growing limp around mine. And still I do not forgive him.

  Chapter Two

  Many came to pay my father final respects. The president himself was there along with other delegates from the Blue House, and there were Bubble employees and old university colleagues, various celebrities, actors, singers. I am proud to see that my father had touched so many lives.

  At a distance, I glance Lee Sung. And what the fuck is she doing here? Yes, I suppose she knew my father – I sneer when I recall how close she came to accidentally becoming a part of the family. As I’ve made clear to her, she no longer has any place in my life. The mere sight of her makes me angry. I look away.

  I hate that woman.

  During the days after the reading of the will, I kept to my apartment, away from the eyes of the press. My father left me everything, apart from the estate, which he gave to my stepmother. Now she hangs on my goodwill like a Christmas decoration, and I have no intention of being her tree.

  I would’ve stayed hidden were it an option, but eventually I was forced to make my presence known to the outside world. A great deal of things required my handling, first and foremost, a promise I must keep.

  I ask the driver to wait for me outside the building for ten minutes, and dismiss his suggestion to call the bodyguards. When I slide open the curtain and peek outside, I realize that might have been a bad call. Probably was.

  Looking thirty-five stories down, I easily spot the dozens of prowling reporters and photographers. I’m beginning to accept that their constant presence is no fleeting matter. I’d better get used to it.

  In the elevator I scan myself in the mirror. After four years of jeans and T-shirts, wearing a suit and tie feels a bit strange. It doesn’t look bad, though – I’d go as far as saying it looks good – but it’s still another thing I’ll need to get used to.

  The reporters rush me the second I exit the building. They’re blocking my path, forcing me into the photos they’d been waiting for days and days to take. I don’t smile and feign no courtesy toward them. Once they’re out of the way I get in the car and ask the driver to drive away from there.

  We head to the Bubble Corp Tower, which still makes me stare and marvel whenever I see it. It isn’t just another skyscraper – its sharply futuristic design sets it apart from its peers. Very few towers in the world are so breathtaking – it is maybe comparable to the Flame Towers in Azerbaijan, North Korea’s Ryugyong Hotel, or the Capital Gate in Abu Dhabi. Its impact on the Seoul skyline is as distinct and undeniable as Bubble’s impact on humanity.

  The closer we get to the tower, the more impressive it seems, and I’m beginning to realize the size of the empire my father left behind;
the weight of the responsibility that now rests on my shoulders.

  I enter the building. Dozens of gigantic flower arrangements fill the lobby, placed in my father’s honor. In front of them stands the army of senior executives and managers who’ve come to greet me on my first day on the job. They bow and call me “Mr. CEO” – something more to get used to. The title used to refer to my father. I hope I manage not to disappoint everyone when I climb into those shoes.

  I thank my new executive staff for their hard work and dedication, though I have no idea what any of them do – I fully intend to find out over the next few days.

  There is a framed photograph on my father’s desk. Since Bubble, you hardly see those anymore – no one still bothers to print and frame photos, making this one exceedingly rare.

  I pick it up and examine it closely. I’m unfamiliar with this photo, and not sure when it was taken, but I assume I was about three years old. My mother and father are holding me from both sides and I’m laughing. I wish it was a Bubble record rather than a photograph, but unfortunately Bubble wasn’t operational yet back when my mother was alive; I have no record of her.

  I place down the framed photograph and turn on the computer. I am prompted for a password and recall what my father asked me – remember where we used eat on the way back from your swimming lessons?

  Of course I do. We’d stop at the Penguin Macaron kiosk for the perfect ice cream. Si-Hyun, my stepmother, would throw a fit if she found out I’d ice cream before dinner, so it became our secret from her. I’d really like some Penguin Macaron ice cream right now. I miss it. One of my first Bubble memories was recorded there.

  I type in the password and the computer chimes in greeting.

  I locate the file easily, and not because I’m such a brilliant hacker with a prestigious computer engineering degree. Any six-year-old would have been similarly successful. I’m surprised at how relatively unprotected the file was, considering the danger my father clearly saw in it – a better password, at least, would’ve been appropriate.

  Father was always one step ahead. He must’ve assumed I’d open the file before deleting it. He always said he’d never met anyone more curious than me. I double-click and find myself, again, surprised: the file is empty.

  I open the file manager and search for any other files named “File 142,” or just “142,” but there aren’t any.

  I still make sure to fully delete it. An entirely futile act to perform on an empty file, but I feel obligated to honor my father’s final, and apparently senseless, request.

  The rest of my day is carried out with the utmost efficiency. I attend a morning meeting about the server’s bandwidth and the need to increase their internal storage, in response to the steep rise in the number of users. The meteoric growth faced by the company requires careful preparation and a similarly remarkable improvement in the company’s cloud storage technologies. When this meeting ends, another begins: this one about the latest hacking attempts into Bubble’s code. The head of our cyber security division informs me that all attempts have been foiled, and requests that everyone exercise caution and immediately report anything unusual, even if it seems meaningless, directly to him. Like my father told me before his death, a system like Bubble faces hacking attempts every day. Like any hacking effort, success is only a matter of time – and when one of them does succeed, it’ll be quite the shit storm. I thank our cyber security division head for thwarting the latest onslaught and ask him to immediately inform me on any developments.

  The final meeting of the day is with the head of marketing. I brace myself for a boring presentation brimming with graphs and budgets, but I’m taken by surprise when ten beautiful presenters walk inside, each carrying one of the new headset models, like stylish high-tech glasses, resting on a black velvet pillow. Not a bad presentation so far. I think I like this head of marketing already.

  I examine the new models – not bad. The design is neat and refined, even fashionable – they look like a cross between sunglasses and swim goggles. I mentally compare them to the first model given to me by my father to try out. It was more helmet than glasses, ugly and awkward – I remember how weird and nerdy it made me look, how embarrassed I was to wear it. Over the years, advances in the Samsung memory chips allowed one to wear a headset without risking social ostracism. The chips we use in our headsets today are the best on the market. They are more powerful and more energy-efficient than their predecessors, allowing the production of slimmer, lighter headsets every year. Accordingly, the new models look fantastic.

  I approach one of the presenters – who reacts like I’m about to ask for her hand in marriage – pick up the headset from the velvet pillow and try it on. She blurts out a soft “wow” which I pretend not to notice. I’m overdue for a new headset anyway, and being CEO means I don’t always have to give a shit, so I slip it into my jacket pocket.

  I hear the head of marketing making a slight choking sound, followed by a loud gulp.

  “Mr. CEO, that is a prototype – I’m afraid we’ll need it back,” he squirms.

  “Manufacture the other nine. I’ll be keeping this one.” I can tell he’s surprised by my belligerence, but I think being CEO entitles me to a bit of slack.

  Armed with my new headset I return to my father’s office in the crown of the tower. For a moment I just breathe deeply and admire the view out the vast window. Seoul’s skyline is truly breathtaking in the evening. I suppose it’ll take me a while to absorb what all of this has now become.

  My office.

  My view.

  My life.

  I take off my jacket and toss it on the couch. I untuck my shirt and pull my tie loose. It has truly been a long day.

  I sit down and examine my new toy. I’m certain the new models will fly off the shelves. I wear the new headset, resting it on the bridge of my nose, and press my finger against the biometric reader.

  “Access denied.”

  This has never happened to me before. I take off the headset and clean the surface of the reader with the hem of my shirt before trying again.

  “Access denied.”

  I take it off and toss it on the table, disappointed. Beautiful and defective, just like Lee Sung.

  I inform the head of product design that my prototype is faulty, and ask that he look into it without delay, before they are sent to mass production.

  On my way home I think about Penguin Macaron and ask the driver to head to Jongno District. It’s a long way to drive for ice cream, but I have no other plans for the evening.

  But what I’m looking for isn’t there. A café has taken its place. I tell myself that by now I should have learned not to expect the ongoing survival of things that I love.

  The disappearance of Penguin Macaron makes me want to watch an old record I made during one of my visits there with Dad. I feel around in my bag for my old Bubble headset. I hadn’t used them since my self-imposed withdrawal from the masochistic habit of watching Lee Sung cheating on me with Shin Su-Yon. I hesitate for a moment before fishing them out of my bag and wearing them.

  “Welcome back, Kim Ji-Yon,” the system greets me. “Your last visit to Bubble was today at 19:12.”

  Odd. I guess that was when I tried the faulty headset in my office, but I was surprised that the failed attempt had registered as a visit to Bubble.

  Curious, I say, “Play latest record,” and count three seconds while the system complies.

  “I’ll crack your head open, scumbag.”

  It barely takes me a millisecond to realize that this record can’t be one of mine. The voice is female, and the entire spectrum of emotions and thoughts is nothing like my own – god, this is insane. I feel like I’ve caught Santa Claus halfway down the chimney.

  It’s definitely a woman. She’s talking to a man, who I judge to be somewhere in his early thirties. His standing there, legs planted wide, smug.
I feel like kicking him in the crotch. Well, she does – I don’t even know the guy, but I feel what she feels, and she is absolutely livid.

  This is amazing. I see the scene unfolding through her eyes. It’s beyond strange, and fascinating.

  “Stop being such a brat. All I said was that I’d like to facetime you later.”

  You neglect to mention asking me to change clothes, and you winked when you said it, and you licked your lips – in your dreams. Asshole.

  “And that I should change into something ‘more comfortable’ first. You’re disgusting.”

  I’m inside her head, Jesus. The sheer madness of being inside someone else’s mind – especially a woman’s. I’m ecstatic with the voyeurism of this, more than I can describe with mere words.

  I hear what she’s hearing, I see exactly what she does – but much more excitingly, I feel what she feels, know what she’s thinking, even her innermost thoughts. I can glimpse the depths of her soul, and no one will ever know. Immoral, certainly. But godlike.

  “I hate recording on Bubble, but I’m doing this to never forget what a repulsive creep you are. If you ever come back here, I’ll serve you the spoiled garbage food and stop looking at me like that!”

  I feel so exposed. I must buy some padded bras, why won’t he stop staring, this is so fucking embarrassing –

  I’m ashamed to admit that by now I’m trying to imagine what she looks like. Tight shirt hard nipples. My imagination is getting the better of me.

  She’s furious. Extremely so.

  Shit – that would be my boss Mr. Han clearing his throat, his subtle way of telling me to calm down, he’s only making me angrier. He heard what this asshole said to me, just like everyone else, and he has no intention of kicking a paying customer out of here. I’d quit right now, if I could afford to. If I didn’t need this job to survive. Why won’t the bastard stop staring –

  By now I’m dying to know what she looks like in his eyes. It’s impossible, of course. I can only see him through hers. She kicks the chair.