2009年回河内探亲时，一位和我关系不是很亲密的表姐停下了口中念颂的佛号，告诉我说，我被一个鬼缠上了。"你一进来我就感觉到了。"她说道。
如此的奇谈怪论，她说来却那么平静、确然无疑，这几乎和她所说的事情本身一样让人犯怵。她接着说道，这是一个爱我的男人死后变成的鬼。很显然，这么多年来他一直在破坏我的恋情，好让我为他守身。
许多越南人信奉鬼神世界、来生、算命和占卜，包括鬼怪附体的说法。这是亚洲的普遍现象。我们试图根据这些信念来操纵自己的命运，为此花费了大量的时间和金钱。作为接受过西方教育、具有理性思维的人，我起初认为表姐十分荒谬可笑。但当我重新融入家乡文化和思维方式之中，她的话开始困扰着我。
我是一名政策分析师和记者，在纽约工作，我喜欢这个国际大都市。我遇到过许多富有魅力的男士，不止一次坠入过爱河。但当我步入35岁时，我开始担心自己能否遇到我希望与之共度余生的那个人。一个死去的爱慕者霸占着我的想法让我惶恐，看来——在当时——似乎也颇有道理。
几天后，我表姐打电话来，建议我请一位僧人、帮我结束与那个男鬼的缘份，我同意了。在她安排之下，我见到了Tien大师。除了他的法号之外，我对他一无所知。我原以为会见到一位朴素、蓄着胡须、身着棕色布袍的中年男子，没想到却是一位三十出头、剃着寸头、穿着牛仔裤和阿迪达斯运动鞋、戴Gucci墨镜的男士。
在街头小摊上各自吃了一碗河粉，我们登上四轮驱动的座驾，启程前往山里的一座神庙。经过数小时驾车和徒步跋涉之后，我们来到一座神龛面前。这座神龛的大小仅够容纳我们带去作为供品的一堆纸偶、面额100美元的伪钞、食物和酒。
我并不信教。我在越南长大，当时越南实行苏联式的社会主义，共产党不相信鬼神之说。作为党员，我父母都是无神论者。我去人家拜神的地方，不过是作为一种文化体验。
当大师摇晃着手中点燃的香向神佛诉求时，我的理智荡然无存。自从23岁离开越南，我先后在哥伦比亚大学和哈佛大学取得学位，分别在加拿大、美国和西非工作过。结果，我却拜倒在神龛前，点着香，恳请一位死去的男人给我自由。是什么促使我做出这种正常情况下我会认为毫无意义的举动？是一颗新闻工作者的好奇心，急于重新适应祖国文化的心愿，抑或是渴望得到爱情的迫切愿望？
一个小时后，大师停止诵经，叫我往地上抛35枚硬币（数目与我的年龄相同），一次抛一枚。每抛一枚硬币，我要用右手用力一挥。投掷的结果是：18枚正面，17枚反面。
"他答应离开你。"大师说，他保证我会在一年内结婚。付给大师50美元辛苦费时，我长出了一口气。
时隔近两年，我本月又回到河内探亲。虽然没带回结婚的消息，但我告诉大伙儿，我又恋爱了，今年情人节是我们相识半周年的纪念日。
幸运的是，我现在的男朋友在越南呆过几年，受到过亚洲实用主义的熏陶。当我跟他谈起那个缠着我的鬼的故事时，他还建议为我们的浪漫晚餐预订三人的桌子。"万一那个鬼没走呢，"我的男友说道，"我们起码得有点礼貌。"
译者/杨远
http://www.ftchinese.com/story/001037070
On a visit to see my family in Hanoi in 2009, a cousin to whom I'm not particularly close broke away from her Buddhist chant to tell me I was being stalked by a ghost. "I felt it as soon as you walked in," she said.
The calmness and certainty with which she shared such bizarre news was almost as unnerving as the news itself. She went on to explain that the ghost was a dead man who was in love with me. Apparently, he had been undermining my romantic relationships for years in an effort to keep me for himself.
As is common in Asia, many Vietnamese embrace the world of spirits, the afterlife, fortune-telling and horoscopes – including the concept of ghost stalkers. We spend a lot of time and money trying to manipulate our fates based on these beliefs. The western-educated, rational thinker in me initially dismissed my cousin as silly. But as I settled back into the local culture and its way of thinking, her words began to haunt me.
I work as a policy analyst and journalist in New York, a cosmopolitan city that I love. I've met many impressive men and fallen in love. But as I hit my mid-30s, I began to worry about whether I'd meet that special someone with whom I'd want to spend the rest of my life. The idea that a dead suitor was keeping me captive rattled me and seemed – at that moment – plausible.
So when my cousin called a few days later to suggest I hire a monk to help me end my relationship with the dead man, I agreed. At her arrangement, I met "Thay" Tien. Knowing nothing about him other than his title – "Thay" is "Master Monk" in Vietnamese – I expected a middle-aged man with austere facial hair and a brown cotton robe. Instead, I met a thirty-something man sporting a crew cut, clad in jeans, Adidas sneakers and Gucci sunglasses.
After slurping a bowl of pho at a street-side stall, we set off in a four-wheel-drive for a sacred mountainside temple. A few hours of driving and hiking later, we sat down in front of a shrine barely big enough to hold the stacks of papier-mâché dolls and fake $100 bills, food and liquor that we had brought as offerings.
I'm not religious. I was brought up in Vietnam during the Soviet-style socialist era, when spirituality was much frowned upon by the Communist party. As party members, my parents were atheists. When I do visit places of worship, it is for the cultural experience.
As Thay Tien waved lighted incense sticks to appeal to the higher spirit, I brushed off rational thoughts. Since leaving Vietnam at 23, I have earned graduate degrees from Columbia and Harvard and worked in Canada, the US and west Africa. How did I end up kneeling before a shrine, burning incense and asking a dead man to set me free? Was it journalistic curiosity, an urge to fit back in with my birth country, or a desperate desire to find love that prompted me to do something I'd normally consider senseless?
After an hour, Thay Tien stopped chanting and asked me to toss 35 coins – the number equal to my age – on the ground, one at a time. With each coin toss, I was to make a slashing gesture with my right hand. Eighteen heads and 17 tails.
"He's agreed to let you go," he said, promising me that I would be married within a year. I let out a sigh of relief as I paid Thay Tien his $50 fee.
This month, almost two years later, I'm back in Hanoi to see my family. Although I don't have news of a wedding, I've told everyone that I have fallen in love again and that this Valentine's Day marks our six-month anniversary.
Luckily, the man I'm with now has spent years in Vietnam and been tempered by Asian pragmatism. When I told him about my ghost, he suggested we reserve a table for three at our romantic dinners, "just in case the ghost hasn't left". As my boyfriend puts it, "We should at least be polite."
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