Mr. Livingston found it unacceptable that Robert-Twist had baptized her only son in the Presbyterian Church of Saint Andrew and named him Oliver. Not because he had anything against the Presbyterian parishioners or the dreadful dome of Saint Andrew, but because he was convinced that it took a lot of audacity to leave a little boy named Oliver Twist at the door of his bookstore, Monday through Friday. Edward Livingston had lost count; he no longer knew how many years he had been a bookseller. It was not a professional passion; it was a matter of survival: Mr. Livingston understood books better than people. Although this last observation was not entirely accurate—there are exceptions even for the most cunning bookseller—because life in a bookstore had many books and few customers.
In his bookstore proudly displayed the blue sign with white letters that read: "MOONLIGHT BOOKS." It was housed in an old two-story building on a small street in the Temple neighborhood. At the same spot, in a not so enviable position, there was a men's shoe store that had seen better days around the 1920s, and a tailor so old—he looked remarkably like Mr. Magoo—that most of his customers would never need his services again. Mr. Livingston was not bothered that his bookstore was a bit hidden, as he was a fervent supporter of the view that life without a little mystery is not interesting.
From the street, the facade of Moonlight Books was entirely painted blue wood with well-kept display cases. Behind the windows, a choreography of novels managed to catch the eye of passersby with varying degrees of success. It was not Mr. Livingston who dealt with the shop's windows, but he expressed his approval with a sharp growl every time a book was about to be placed on the shelves. The bookstore door, also made of blue wood, had a strange wing-shaped handle that visitors pushed to enter, while at the same time being welcomed by the distinctive sound of some hanging bells.
