Samantha Geimer - The Girl - A Life in the Shadow of Roman Polanski

Then he tells me to go into the other room and lie down. “No, I have to go home,” I say, but he takes me by the shoulders and walks me to the bedroom, and sits me on a large red velvet couch. He asks if I’m okay. “No, I am not okay,” I say. “I better go home now. ”

He assures me I’ll get better.

He holds my arms at my sides and kisses me, and I say, “No, come on,” but between the pill and the champagne it’s like my own voice is very far away. He’s kissing my face and feeling my breasts and he asks me again if I like it, does it feel good. I say nothing, but he’s a guy who makes movies, so I imagine he’s filling in the dialogue for himself. You’re making me do this and now you want me to tell you I like it, too? It’s not like you’re going to talk me into liking this.

Then he goes down on me. I know what this is, of course, because I’ve read about it, but have never actually had someone do it to me. He asks if it feels good, which it does—and that, in itself, is awful. I don’t want this, my mind recoils, but my body is betraying me.

And that’s when I check out. I go far, far away. There is a sense of complete and utter emptiness. Oh, just my body. I’m not really in here. Okay. I see.

He keeps murmuring something, and he is trying to make it nice for me, I know, but it is not nice and everything is blurring and I feel dizzy and the room is so dark. But I don’t fight. Why fight? All he wants to do is have an orgasm, this little spasm that makes the world go ’round. I made the decision to just let him do it, how bad can it be, it’s just sex. He doesn’t want to hurt me. He just wants to do it. And that will be that. It’s not like I am a real person to him, or for that matter that he is real to me. We are both playing our parts.

Intercourse is such a funny word for it, sometimes. Intercourse: “a communication between individuals.” But what about when there’s absolutely no communication at all? He’s this old guy. He keeps asking me if I like it. Then he has a thought.

“Are you on the pill?” he asks me.

“No.”

“When was your last period?”

I wish he’d shut up and just do it. I’m trying to pretend I’m not there, and he’s asking me questions. And how do you expect me to answer anything? It’s dark and I’m high, and I’m in a house I’ve never been in, alone in the blackness with this stranger. Would you please just stop talking?

“I don’t know. A week or two, I can’t be sure.”

“Come on! You have to remember this.” He is a little impatient, hoping I’ll remember fast. This isn’t about pleasing me anymore. At the time I have no idea why he is asking. It is only later I think, Oh, I guess he thought I was one of those girls who wanted to trap him.

“I don’t know,” I say truthfully. “I just don’t know.”

“I won’t come inside you then.”

Then he says something totally confusing to me: “Would you want me to go through your back?”

I say, “No,” but I don’t know what he is asking anyway. I just know that even though I’ve said no, I’ll do pretty much anything to get this over with. When it happened, I still wasn’t sure quite what to think. I was just like, Wait, was that my butt? Do people actually do that?

And then: done. I think. But at that very moment, there is a knock on the bedroom door.

“Roman, are you in there?” A woman’s voice. I don’t see her, but it’s not the same woman who let us in at first. Roman quickly covers himself and gets up to answer the door. A wave of relief washes over me. Okay, now I can leave.

He cracks open the door. The woman sounds annoyed, I think, but I’m not sure. I get off the couch and grab my panties. He tells her we just got out of the Jacuzzi and we’re getting dressed, and we’ll be right out.

But… not so fast. He puts his hands on my shoulders and steers me back to the couch. Wait, he’s not done? I’m confused. I think I feel… wetness back there. But maybe not. He gently removes my panties again. Now there’s someone in the house, so should I resist and head for the woman who knocked? But I’m high, and just want to get out of here. He is not rough, and I’m not even afraid anymore. I don’t even care what he’s doing at this point, because I’m squeezing my eyes shut and it’s pitch black and, well, since I was a little kid I’ve always been a little afraid of the dark. Home… I just want to get home.

He gets up, and so do I. I leave the room, blinking, happy to be out of that blackness. How long had I been in there? Time seemed to be playing games with me. It felt like an hour. In reality it was more like ten minutes. I go to the bathroom to clean up and I put on my panties and start scrounging for my clothes once more. I comb my hair. I’m going home soon.

He asks me to wait for him before going outside, but I don’t. I mean, yes, I have to wait. He’s my ride home. But I’m in a rush to get out of that house. What did he think we’d do—lie around? Talk?

I had all my extra clothes in my arms so I headed for the front door to go to the car. I didn’t want to meet the woman. I wasn’t sure if I could act normal. I just wanted to flee and hoped she wouldn’t see me. But she did, and I heard a voice in the kitchen say, “Hello.” I mumbled “Hi” or “Bye” back as I walked by the kitchen to the front door and the outside. I glanced at her; she was gorgeous and sloe-eyed, with thick black hair and a face that was all planes and angles. Didn’t this woman think it was weird, her friend Roman coming here with a kid? Did this happen every day? I tucked my head down and slunk out; our eyes never met.

Leaving the house, I had only a vague sense of what time it was. The buzz of traffic was still too strong for it to be anywhere close to midnight.

I walked to the car and got into the front passenger seat. I was happy to know I was going to be home soon. But I was exhausted, overwhelmed, and, although I didn’t realize it, pretty loaded. I started to cry, with both relief and anger. I knew something bad had happened, and that I had done some dumb things, but I was going to be okay. After all, he was this famous man—and famously experienced lover—who hadn’t wanted to hurt me; he even wanted me to feel pleasure. Later I heard that older men seducing young girls was quite the thing where he came from—that in his mind, I should probably be grateful for his experience, his technique.

But I wasn’t European. I was an American girl. And I wasn’t feeling grateful.

Then, the self-recrimination began. God, why would I take that pill? What was I thinking? And why was I posing topless? What is wrong with me? And now look what that has led to.

Roman’s voice came from outside the driver’s window.

“Are you okay?” he said. He seemed surprised I was crying. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah.” I swallowed.

“You’ll be all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine, don’t worry, I’m fine.”

“I’ll be back in a minute.” He wanted to talk to the woman in the kitchen for a few minutes. For some reason I didn’t want him to know that he had scared me or that I was upset. I had played a part in front of the camera, and I could play a part now.

It got quiet then. The car was roomy and smelled good, all leather and wood, and I was glad to be alone. I stopped crying. Several minutes went by. I wondered why he was taking so long. Was he talking to that woman? Who was she, anyway? Did she live there? I don’t know, but I doubt she asked about me. And I am certain he never told her my name. What was he saying when we were doing it? I don’t think he even told me I was pretty.

I sat there for a while in the big fancy car, feeling worried and sad. Finally Roman returned, and we started back down the long road to the gate. As the road swung back down, it seemed terribly dark again. The Valley was ahead of us, but I didn’t realize until this moment how secluded we were, concealed from the rest of the world by bamboo and wild brush.