wraparound skirt and sleeveless black toprnwith a loose-knit white shawl over it, metrnme on the eneloscd porch. She carriedrnthe wine to the kitchen, and Mrs. Carrollrngave me a tour of the house, graciouslyrncalling my attention to what she calledrn”your lovely flowers” ensconced in a vasernin one of the public rooms. From thernkitchen, Andrea could be heard gailyrnsinging;rn”You’re just like the song,” I said whenrnI rejoined her, referring to Jerome Kern’srn”Don’t Ask Me Not to Sing.” “‘On myrnbike I ride and musicalizc’ —or is itrn’hike’?”rn”It’s ‘hike,'” she confirmed. ‘”On myrnbike I hike and musicalize / In my planesrnrefrains keep rending the skies!’ I sing allrnthe time, it keeps my voice in shape.” Irnasked her if she practiced every day, andrnshe said no. “Though as a performancernapproaches, I become more disciplinedrnin my preparation.”rnWe drank a glass of Perrier togetherrnbefore switching to spritzers —”S/ipritzers,”rnAndrea, who I noticed is a sticklerrnwith foreign words, privately as in performance,rnpronounced it. They remindrnher of her father, who died at the age ofrn83 in 1968. “The sort of thing you expectrnfor years and then it happens, but itrndoesn’t make the trauma any less. Thernreal grief didn’t strike until tvvo years later.”rnEugene Ernst Marcovicci was an internistrnwho met his wife while she wasrnstill singing at the Maisonette: a gallantrnronianhc of the old school, who flirtedrnwith every woman within a hundred feetrnof him. Helen, so far from being jealous,rnregarded this behavior as simply anotherrndisplay of her husband’s manifold socialrngraces. “He was always paying her compliments:rncompliments, compliments…”rnVlien Andrea was 11, her father broughtrnhome a red coat lined with nutria —appropriate,rnhis wife explained to him, for arngirl of 20. As a child, she used to watchrnher parents dance together; at 35, she decidedrnto make the songs of their generationrnhers. A photographic portrait on thernpiano showed Mrs. Carroll as a beautifulrnyoung woman. Andrea pointed it out forrnme, demurring when I obsen’ed a certainrnfamily resemblance. “Anyway, you’rernrecognizably your mother’s daughter,” Irnassured her.rnWc settled on flie porch, Andrea withrnher feet drawn up on the sofa cushions.rnMy battered old leather accountant’srnbriefcase caught her fancy; she took it onrnher knees to examine the oilpatch .stickersrnfrom 20 years ago, and the shiny NRArndeeal. Andrea placed the end other fingerrnon it. “My brother would approve ofrnthat,” she remarked, and I recalled a storyrnshe’d told me in our telephone conversationrnfour months earlier, how she walkedrnby accident into a gun store in Billingsrnwhere the clerk, recognizing “thernsinger,” seemed at a loss to understandrnwhat she was doing in his shop. “Buyingrna gun?” Andrea had thought sheepishly.rnHer eyes are a deep blue-green withrngolden lights in them. We discussed ourrncommon background growing up inrnNew York Cit’ in the 1950’s and 60’s: Andrearnwent to Marymount, I attended thernTrinit)’ School, where her first great love,rnChristopher Born, was a year behind mern(“Wasn’t he adorable?”—the spoken intonationrnexactly matching that of thernsung word in her recording of Colemanrnand McCarthy’s “Isn’t He Adorable?”); Irnsuffered at Miss Harris’s dancing classesrnwhile she was obviously learning somethingrnat DeRham’s. She never came out,rnand wore a red dress to debutante partiesrngiven for other girls (“I’m surprised theyrnlet me in!”). When I asked her how shernlikes living in California after so manyrnyears in New York, “I LOVE it!” she answeredrndecidedly. (How many NewrnYorkers had asked her that question before?)rnI had to tell her that in this instancernI was surprised, since New York inrngeneral and the Algonquin in particularrnare so integrally connected to her art.rn”My musical ear is offended by the cacophony,”rnAndrea explained, adding thatrnlately she has considered moving back inrnorder to put her five-year-old daughter Alicernin Marymount.rnA prima donna in the best sense of thernword, Marcovicci has, in place of sidernand affectation, the most utter self-possession.rnTalking with her this summer afternoon,rnI had the reassuring impression ofrnpicking up where we’d left off in thatrnhour-long phone talk back in Februar).rn(“I’ve just finished reading your letter,rnand I feel red all over,” Andrea had begun.)rnAn offliand remark she’d made onstagerntwo evenings before about beingrnCatholic had struck me at the time as unusualrnbehavior for a performing artist; Irnbrought it up to her now, adding that Irnam a convert myself “Oh,” Andrea said,rn”I was very devout as a girl, going to Massrnever)’ day witii my missal.”rn”The Novus Ordo can be irritating,rncan’t it? Little things like guitar Masses,rnfor instance.”rn”LITTLE things?” Andrea flared herrnnosttils. “I liked the ritual . . . the MYSTERY!”rnWe discussed the narrowing of knowledgernand experience in contemporaryrnculture, where allusions formerly recognizablernby all educated people today flyrnover the heads of the young (as well as thernnot-so-young); a culture that congratulatesrnitself on its sophistication and cosmopolitanismrnbecause it has the Internet.rnNo intellectual snob, this womanrnwhose career is “taking light music seriously”rnenjoys Dean Koontz’s novelsrn{False Memory especially): “Anythingrnthat can get me through the agony of sixrnhours in the air! Going to work isn’t sornbad, but the impatience of the return triprnmakes it almost unbearable. I ought tornkeep a diar)- on the road, but I don’t haverntime until I’m on the plane, and then I’mrntoo exhausted to discipline myself to usernthe time for writing.”rnAndrea’s shows are “months andrnmonths” in preparation, partly owing tornher conscientious refusal to cheat by cannibalizingrnone for the sake of another.rn”Wlien in doubt, bring in Jerome Kern;rnor second, Fred Astaire.” Her voice is inrnthe process of changing-going up, notrndown, as it matures, confounding the experiencernof her vocal teacher (thoughrnsome operatic tenors, notably LauritzrnMelchior and Carlo Bergonzi, have begunrntheir careers as baritones). “I’ve lostrnmy chest voice, and I can’t get it back nornmatter how hard I try; I can’t belt. Yourncan’t expect to hear me stay long on arnhigh note, forte.” Wlien I complimentedrnher on keeping above the orchestra thernother night, she explained that GlennrnMehrbach’s arrangements are designedrnto prevent some overly excited instrumentalistrnfrom covering her at criticalrnmoments.rnAfter an hour or so, Mrs. Carroll joinedrnus on the porch; also Shelly Markham,rnwho wrote the lovely music for “ThernSweetest of Nights and the P’inest ofrnDays” (lyrics by Judith Viorst), incorporatedrnin “Millennium.” Andrea broughtrnmore ice and poured more wine, while Irnteased Mrs. Carroll (who had placedrnthird in a Sunfish race on the lake the dayrnbefore) about singing Wagner at the Metrnnext season and her daughter took up thernrunning gig between them, constructedrnaround Mrs. Carroll’s perennial tiirn-offthe-rnlights campaign. “Mother grew up inrnthe Depression. No wonder people wererndepressed in those days —they lived inrnflie dark!” Once a year Mrs. Carroll closesrnthe windows and the outer doors tight,rnthen opens the cellar door. The cold airrnOCTOBER 2000/57rnrnrn