Chap­ter IX titled “How Lazaro Became a Bag­gage Car­ri­er” begins with his arrival in Madrid, car­ry­ing lit­tle more than deter­mi­na­tion and a hope­ful heart. Inspired by advice from a more sea­soned rogue, he invests in a porter’s strap and sets out to earn a liv­ing through hon­est labor. His opti­mism is tan­gi­ble as he sta­tions him­self in the plaza, expect­ing that the weight of oth­ers’ bur­dens will lift his own mis­for­tune. His first client appears to be a refined young lady, care­ful­ly groomed and grace­ful in her steps. Trust­ing her exte­ri­or, Lazaro fol­lows with­out ques­tion, wind­ing through alleys and cor­ners until they arrive at a sus­pi­cious­ly qui­et house. Only after enter­ing does he real­ize that the woman belongs to a broth­el, and he has unknow­ing­ly crossed into the mar­gins of society’s hid­den world.

As the woman set­tles in, she offers Lazaro a glimpse into her tur­bu­lent past. Her life has not been her own—it has been direct­ed by men who saw in her not a per­son, but a resource. From a false start with a cler­ic in Seville to her time spent under the con­trol of “guardians,” she reveals a path shaped by manip­u­la­tion and trad­ed favor. Lazaro lis­tens, unsure if her sto­ry is meant to jus­ti­fy, manip­u­late, or sim­ply fill the silence. When the time comes for his pay, he is caught off guard. She denies owing him any­thing, claim­ing a mis­un­der­stand­ing, and quick­ly turns aggres­sive. In moments, oth­ers arrive, and Lazaro finds him­self shoved out the door with bruis­es instead of coins. The les­son is sharp: trust placed in appear­ances or polite­ness often leads to regret.

Refus­ing to let one mis­for­tune end his efforts, Lazaro accepts a new task—this time from a Fran­cis­can fri­ar. He is asked to car­ry a bun­dle to a near­by monastery, and though weary, the promise of pay­ment stirs his strength. The fri­ar speaks kind­ly, mask­ing expec­ta­tions in reli­gious vocab­u­lary, and Lazaro begins the dif­fi­cult jour­ney. The load is heavy, each step dri­ven by the hope that, this time, effort will meet reward. When they reach the monastery, how­ev­er, Lazaro is met not with thanks or coin, but a pious ser­mon. The fri­ar assures him that while earth­ly wages may lack, his reward will be great in heav­en. The words are emp­ty to Lazaro, who stands there aching and again unpaid, his stom­ach no fuller than before.

The dual encoun­ters serve as a painful awak­en­ing to the cru­el­ty hid­den behind respectable masks. Lazaro’s labor, whether for the body or the spir­it, is dis­missed by those who exploit trust with­out con­se­quence. The woman in the broth­el and the fri­ar in the monastery reflect two ends of society—one shunned and one revered—yet both take with­out giv­ing, leav­ing Lazaro trapped between decep­tion and sanc­ti­mo­ny. Still, he does not give up. His hope endures, not out of blind faith, but from neces­si­ty. Each defeat adds a lay­er to his grow­ing skep­ti­cism, shap­ing him into some­one who no longer accepts the world at face val­ue.

This chap­ter high­lights how sur­vival often means adjust­ing expec­ta­tions, not just of oth­ers, but of jus­tice itself. Lazaro begins to under­stand that hon­esty, though noble, offers no guar­an­tee of reward. The irony of his labor being met with either aggres­sion or piety deep­ens his view of how the world functions—not through fair­ness, but through influ­ence and pre­sen­ta­tion. The broth­el and the monastery, though moral­ly oppo­site, reveal the same truth: labor can be under­val­ued, whether it’s per­formed for prof­it or piety. Lazaro’s grow­ing resilience lies not in wealth or com­fort, but in his refusal to let dis­il­lu­sion­ment crush his spir­it.

Read­ers are offered more than just com­ic misfortune—they are giv­en insight into the endur­ing strength it takes to keep mov­ing for­ward in the face of con­stant dis­ap­point­ment. Lazaro’s sto­ry is not mere­ly about hard­ship, but about the per­sis­tence of dig­ni­ty when the world tries to strip it away. His voice remains steady, nev­er ask­ing for pity, only shar­ing what he has lived. Through laugh­ter and bruis­es, he uncov­ers truths that speak not just to his time, but to all who have ever worked and wait­ed, only to be met with silence. His jour­ney, though paved with hard­ship, remains a qui­et tri­umph of will over cir­cum­stance.