Next Thursday is Corpus Christi, one of the three Thursdays that shine more than the sun, as the Castilians say. Of the three Thursdays, none are holidays anymore. Holy Thursday has become queues of cars and packed roads for the start of Holy Week, which has been reduced to three days, or four, depending on the place. Holy Thursday, which is the feast of the Last Supper, of the institution of the Eucharist, of the piece of bread dipped in the lamb's sauce and which points out the traitor, etc., Holy Thursday has ceased to be a holiday precisely because it is a Thursday. And Corpus Christi, which was instituted because the incomprehensible wonder of the Eucharist, of the incredible Transubstantiation, was overshadowed by the prayer in the garden, by the arrest of Jesus, by the kiss of Judas and the severed ear—in other words, by the entire Passion. The joy of the Last Supper was left without a worthy and specific feast to celebrate it worthily. And the third Thursday, the Ascension, had never had much standing as a popular festival, because who celebrates a farewell, even with the promise of a return? In short, none of the three Thursdays are celebrated anywhere, except perhaps Corpus Christi, which in Berga has been turned into fire and smoke and dancing monsters, amid fire and firecrackers.

Philip II died in the monastery of San Lorenzo de El Escorial on September 13, 1598, after a long agony. Before breathing his last, like most of his contemporaries, he had detailed in his will everything that was to be done afterward. Among other things, he had ordered that 20,000 Masses be celebrated for his salvation. The more Masses, the less time in purgatory, the Church said.