Spirit,’ ” Montoya whispered, standing up and starting along the row of chairs. She read her American Indian chant, after which the bell ringers, wearing white gloves and determined expressions, played “O Christ Who Interfaces with the World,” which sounded a good deal like the banging of the pipes. “They’re absolutely necrotic, aren’t they?” Colin whispered behind his order of service. “It’s late twentieth century atonal,” Dunworthy whispered back. “It’s supposed to sound dreadful.”
