
ISTANBUL— Caroline is sitting in the passenger seat of the gray Mercedes 200. She turns to Ibo, and says, “Take me home please.” Ibo’s eyes light up at the thought. “With pleasure,” he murmurs. “We can have coffee in your new house and speak a bit.” Caroline feigns outrage. “Ibo, you’re still married, you saw Mesude, she was like crazy,” she says in her deliberately broken Turkish. “I am afraid of her. They’re going to get the police. You and I … the same house—no.” “OK,” says Ibo, in full retreat. “I'll try to be patient until the divorce.”