The Last Light: Horn and Marlene on the Lanterne Rouge

By evening, the window had become a dark reflection of the table. Horn set down a mug.

“Why honour the rider who finishes last? The lanterne rouge. I understand applauding the effort, but giving last place a name?”

“Last overall,” Marlene said. “Not last up one hill. Three weeks, all the way to Paris. Plenty of riders don’t get there.”

Horn rubbed a thumb along a rough patch on the mug’s handle.

“So we’re looking at the bottom of the list. Not at what it took to stay on it.”

“Yes.”

For a moment, neither reached for anything.

“And we’re back to trains,” Horn said. “After talking about railways earlier.”

“The red lamp on the final carriage,” Marlene said. “That’s where the name comes from. Lanterne rouge. Red lantern.”

“Not a warning that the carriage has failed.”

“No. It’s the end of the train.”

Horn looked towards the window. “Out past the break, you can put everything into paddling and barely seem to move. From the beach, it probably looks like nothing.”

“But you know the difference.”

“Usually.” Horn smiled a little. “I still wouldn’t want to come last.”

“I don’t think you have to want it.” Marlene drew the mug closer. “You can wish you’d done better and still have done something worth recognising.”

Outside, a bicycle light passed along the street, then disappeared beyond the window frame.

“An applause you don’t have to mistake for winning,” Horn said.

Marlene nodded. “Just don’t pack up before the last rider gets in.”