Chap­ter V: How They Took Lazaro to the Cap­i­tal begins dur­ing one of the most dehu­man­iz­ing peri­ods of Lazaro’s life, where sur­vival became its own kind of impris­on­ment. Encased in a wood­en tank that mim­ic­ked a cof­fin more than a home, he was parad­ed through towns not as a per­son but as a spectacle—a man who, they claimed, had turned into a fish. His cap­tors craft­ed this illu­sion with pre­ci­sion, and the crowds were eager to believe. For six long months, Lazaro exist­ed on noth­ing but the dirty water in the tank, which iron­i­cal­ly kept him alive by purg­ing his body through con­stant diar­rhea. The pain was unre­lent­ing, yet even more crush­ing was the humil­i­a­tion. The peo­ple watched with fas­ci­na­tion, not sym­pa­thy, while his mind, though dulled by weak­ness, remained painful­ly aware of the absur­di­ty around him. Each day blurred into the next, and his voice was silenced beneath the myth oth­ers built.

The jour­ney to the cap­i­tal was orches­trat­ed by three men who knew how to spin fan­ta­sy into prof­it. The mule dri­ver han­dled the logis­tics, the rope han­dler man­aged the spec­ta­cle, and the ora­tor played the crowd with con­vinc­ing tales. Lazaro, too weak to resist, became com­plic­it by neces­si­ty. In pri­vate moments, he ques­tioned them, not out of rebel­lion but out of sheer dis­be­lief. They respond­ed with amuse­ment, treat­ing his suf­fer­ing as part of the act. He was no longer just a man to them—he was mer­chan­dise. Over time, even Lazaro began to inter­nal­ize the iden­ti­ty forced upon him. When the pub­lic saw a crea­ture, he learned to behave like one, know­ing resis­tance would bring noth­ing but more mis­ery. It was a strange kind of sur­vival, one where truth bent to the will of prof­it and per­for­mance.

Upon enter­ing the cap­i­tal, the decep­tion only grew more elab­o­rate. Crowds gath­ered in greater num­bers, eager for dis­trac­tion, and coins clinked steadi­ly into the trio’s pock­ets. The city, always hun­gry for nov­el­ty, wel­comed the odd­i­ty with­out ques­tion. Lazaro’s tank became the cen­ter­piece of their scam, set in plazas and fairs, draw­ing end­less lines of gawk­ing spec­ta­tors. Among them were two uni­ver­si­ty stu­dents, curi­ous and uncon­vinced. They observed with more than amuse­ment, not­ing incon­sis­ten­cies in the sto­ry and the move­ment of Lazaro’s eyes. Rather than mock­ing, they inves­ti­gat­ed, and with sharp log­ic, they declared that the sup­posed fish was noth­ing more than a mal­nour­ished man. Their voic­es cut through the noise, threat­en­ing to unrav­el the entire cha­rade if they were giv­en the author­i­ty to inter­vene.

That moment, though brief, filled Lazaro with both fear and hope. Fear because expo­sure could lead to a worse fate if the pub­lic turned on him, but hope because some­one final­ly saw him not as a beast but as a per­son. He real­ized then how deeply decep­tion can blind even the most obser­vant. The stu­dents’ demand for clar­i­ty sparked mur­murs among the crowd, and Lazaro sensed a shift. Though no one inter­vened imme­di­ate­ly, the illu­sion had cracked. That crack, though small, remind­ed him of who he tru­ly was beneath the role forced upon him. He had not lost him­self entirely—just buried the truth under lay­ers of sur­vival.

Lazaro’s reflec­tion on this ordeal reveals more than just phys­i­cal tor­ment; it uncov­ers the bru­tal mechan­ics of exploita­tion. His cap­tors saw him as a means to an end, and soci­ety applaud­ed their per­for­mance with­out ques­tion­ing the ethics behind it. The crowds believed because it was eas­i­er than think­ing. Lazaro, robbed of voice and agency, learned to nav­i­gate the cage by becom­ing part of the lie. Yet even then, his mind stayed sharp. He knew that endurance wasn’t about denial—it was about stor­ing enough of your­self away until free­dom became pos­si­ble. His abil­i­ty to endure became his qui­et rebel­lion, and his iden­ti­ty, though obscured, was nev­er tru­ly erased.

This chap­ter cap­tures the absur­di­ty of sur­vival in a world eager to prof­it from fan­ta­sy. Lazaro’s suf­fer­ing, masked by spec­ta­cle, reveals how quick­ly human­i­ty can be dis­missed when enter­tain­ment is at stake. But it also reveals some­thing more powerful—his adapt­abil­i­ty and unshak­en will to live. He didn’t break beneath the weight of the lie; he wait­ed, watched, and pre­served what dig­ni­ty he could. And in that, he showed that even the most des­per­ate soul, trapped in a farce, holds with­in them the qui­et strength to out­last the cru­el­ty of oth­ers.