Chap­ter VIII fol­lows a moment in Lazaro’s life when luck seemed firm­ly in his favor. In Tole­do, he enjoyed a stretch of com­fort unlike any­thing he had pre­vi­ous­ly known, thanks to his close friend­ship with a group of Ger­mans who had tak­en a lik­ing to him. Every day, he walked the streets car­ry­ing a shin­ing pan of fruit—glistening pears, ten­der figs, and sug­ared plums—that not only delight­ed the eye but adver­tised the del­i­ca­cies he helped dis­trib­ute. His vis­i­bil­i­ty made him known, but it was his gen­eros­i­ty that made him liked. With every offer­ing he shared, his cir­cle of sup­port grew. Peo­ple spoke high­ly of him, from the mer­chants at the cor­ner stalls to trav­el­ing nobles. For the first time, he felt that if mis­for­tune ever returned, he would not face it alone. That belief, born from the kind­ness of oth­ers, gave him a rare sense of secu­ri­ty.

These friends wel­comed him not as a ser­vant, but as an equal. When they dined, it was as one unit—food, laugh­ter, and expens­es were shared with enthu­si­asm. Lazaro tried many times to offer mon­ey, but his attempts were always met with smiles and firm refusals. “We are togeth­er,” they would say, “and what is ours is yours.” Their kind­ness went beyond the tav­erns and into his home. They sent him away each time with his pock­ets and arms full—roasted lamb soaked in wine, thick hunks of bread still warm, and cured meats so fra­grant they made the house smell of feasts for days. His wife, once used to rationing crumbs, now pre­pared hearty meals with ease. For a man shaped by hunger, every bite felt like a bless­ing, and every friend like a guardian sent from above. Lazaro often lift­ed his eyes and thanked God for such a turn in his fate.

But he also knew, as he always had, that for­tune does not set­tle in one place for long. The court, whose pres­ence often dic­tat­ed the rhythms of the city, announced a relo­ca­tion. This change, though not unfa­mil­iar, meant Lazaro’s cher­ished group would scatter—some head­ing to Valen­cia, oth­ers toward Seville, and a few back to their home­land. As they packed, they begged him to join them, offer­ing promis­es of con­tin­ued joy and shared wealth wher­ev­er they went. Lazaro stood torn. A part of him longed to remain in the com­fort of Toledo’s famil­iar streets. Yet anoth­er part knew well that when for­tune calls, it does not always do so twice. He had once fol­lowed the scent of war to Algiers; per­haps now he was being asked to fol­low the scent of fel­low­ship else­where.

The deci­sion hung heavy on him—not just for what he would gain, but for what he might lose. Com­fort can be a trap, and Lazaro, wis­er now, feared becom­ing too depen­dent on one ver­sion of life. The friend­ships, real as they were, might not sur­vive dis­tance. But nei­ther could they be guar­an­teed to last unchanged if he stayed. Still, the mem­o­ry of their warmth remained, stitched into every full bel­ly and gen­er­ous word. He looked at his wife, his table piled with meats, and knew that grat­i­tude did not mean oblig­a­tion. He had received much, and if it end­ed now, he would remem­ber it as a mir­a­cle, not a right. Even in his doubt, he under­stood that this moment—this stretch of prosperity—was a rare pause in a life of strug­gle.

Through this chap­ter, Lazaro reflects not just on abun­dance but on the frag­ile thread that ties it to time. What he had was real, but not per­ma­nent. His tone car­ries joy, but it is tem­pered with aware­ness. Pros­per­i­ty, he implies, should be held like water in cupped hands—not clutched, not wast­ed, but appre­ci­at­ed while it lasts. And that is what defines him: not a refusal to enjoy for­tune, but a refusal to for­get that it shifts. He steps for­ward not in fear, but in readi­ness, know­ing that life will not always be a full plate—but know­ing, too, that he has tast­ed one.