Anderson took her Dulcinea wig and industrial strength eyebrows quite personally and refused to let Marino come near her for the duration of the run. I remember her singing high E flats over and over again in her dressing room, which could explain why she looked and sounded so sleepy on stage. As an administrative assistant, it was my job to drive La Anderson to her various commitments in my beat up Ford Fairmont. We stopped for lunch one day at an Italian dive on Rampart Street. Over a salad, Anderson proceeded to dish every singer in the universe, living or dead.
Most divas engage in a fair amount of good-natured gossip.
Anderson was chillingly serious with her venomous comments. She spoke kindly only of Alfredo Kraus, from whom Anderson appeared to receive a paternally nurturing interest. Anderson's real-life mad scenes were not only pathetic, but unpredictable. During performances, I used to hand Anderson a prop candle that she carried on stage during the Act Two storm music. Without missing a beat, Anderson walked right back on stage while I stood dumbfounded at her disclosure.