Chap­ter VII: What Hap­pened to Lazaro on the Way to the Tagus Riv­er begins with a moment that near­ly claims Lazaro’s life, only to turn unex­pect­ed­ly in his favor. After falling into a large cask of water near the river­banks, he is believed to be dead by a group of fish­er­men. With­out check­ing his con­di­tion, they lift the bar­rel with the inten­tion of dis­pos­ing of it and him along the riv­er. As the cold water shocks his sys­tem and the motion jos­tles him awake, Lazaro lets out a star­tled cry. The fish­er­men pan­ic, assum­ing they’ve res­ur­rect­ed a ghost, and flee the scene. Their com­mo­tion draws the atten­tion of night guards, who inves­ti­gate and dis­cov­er Lazaro alive but soaked and furi­ous. The fish­er­men are arrest­ed, and Lazaro is pulled from the water not just alive but acci­den­tal­ly saved by those who had planned to dump him.

What fol­lows is a scene of both absur­di­ty and satire as Lazaro is brought before local offi­cials, drenched and bruised, to explain the con­fu­sion. The fish­er­men, now shamed and fright­ened, invent excus­es to escape pun­ish­ment, each ver­sion wilder than the last. Lazaro’s wife appears at the tri­al but pre­tends not to rec­og­nize him, claim­ing she believed him long dead. The arch­priest, sum­moned reluc­tant­ly, con­firms Lazaro’s iden­ti­ty but tries to down­play their con­nec­tion. Lazaro, watch­ing this unfold, seizes con­trol of the nar­ra­tive with his wit and sar­casm, point­ing out the ridicu­lous­ness of every lie and con­tra­dic­tion. The tri­al becomes a farce, expos­ing the hypocrisy of every­one involved. When the dust set­tles, the court fines the fish­er­men and con­fis­cates their goods, award­ing much of it to Lazaro for the injus­tice and harm caused.

The wind­fall changes Lazaro’s sit­u­a­tion dra­mat­i­cal­ly. For the first time in years, he has mon­ey in his hands and a chance to live with­out beg­ging or humil­i­a­tion. He uses it wise­ly at first, pur­chas­ing clean clothes, bet­ter food, and mod­est accom­mo­da­tions. Walk­ing through town with a refreshed appear­ance, he is mis­tak­en for some­one of impor­tance, and doors pre­vi­ous­ly closed begin to open. Yet, Lazaro remains sharply aware of how quick­ly things can turn. His brief rise feels like stand­ing on thin ice—pleasant, but unsta­ble. Even as he enjoys the ben­e­fits of his for­tune, he can­not for­get that just days before, he was near­ly tossed into the riv­er like refuse.

With his new resources, Lazaro attempts to rec­on­cile with his wife, but the reunion proves strained. She has already found anoth­er arrange­ment and treats his return as an incon­ve­nience rather than a relief. Lazaro con­fronts her, not with anger, but with res­ig­na­tion, rec­og­niz­ing that their bond was nev­er built on love or loy­al­ty. Their exchange reflects a deep­er truth about the shift­ing alliances peo­ple form in pur­suit of com­fort. Dis­ap­point­ed but not destroyed, Lazaro choos­es to redi­rect his focus. He decides to put aside illu­sions and con­cen­trate on what mat­ters: secur­ing a future for the daugh­ter he hopes will rise above the life he has known.

This choice marks a change in Lazaro’s char­ac­ter. Instead of chas­ing dig­ni­ty through sta­tus or romance, he turns his ener­gy toward sta­bil­i­ty. The irony of gain­ing for­tune through mis­for­tune isn’t lost on him, and he treats the moment with cau­tious appre­ci­a­tion. His reflec­tions touch on the nature of pride, the illu­sion of con­trol, and the strange way for­tune favors the least expect­ed. Lazaro doesn’t roman­ti­cize his sto­ry; he shares it to reveal how unpre­dictable life can be, espe­cial­ly for some­one liv­ing at society’s edge. He rec­og­nizes that while mon­ey can buy respect, it can­not guar­an­tee trust, affec­tion, or peace of mind.

Through this chaot­ic yet enlight­en­ing chap­ter, Lazaro’s jour­ney once again mir­rors the unpre­dictabil­i­ty of fate. Near-death becomes new life. A pun­ish­ment becomes a gift. And false friends reveal them­selves in times of cri­sis. These shifts, while com­i­cal in tone, car­ry a deep­er warn­ing: that sur­vival often depends not on strength or virtue but on sheer unpre­dictabil­i­ty. Lazaro, ever the real­ist, con­tin­ues for­ward with humor and clar­i­ty, under­stand­ing that his sto­ry is not just his own—it belongs to every per­son nav­i­gat­ing the strange bal­ance between ruin and relief.